A Prince in Molyneaux
by So-crates Johnson
Summary: AU. Prince Adam is never cursed and grows into a spoiled, self-centered adult. When an attempt to flee his responsibilities backfires, he ends up stranded in a small provincial town. Can he find his way out of the town before anyone discovers who he really is? Or will his developing feelings for a beautiful but funny girl cause him to reconsider his plans entirely?
1. Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, Master."

Adam bit back a groan and willed himself to be very, very still. He had woken a few minutes earlier with an excruciating hangover, and he doubted that he would be capable of rising _or_ shining any time in the near future. He couldn't remember what, exactly, he had been doing the night before, but it was clear that it had involved a good deal of wine. His mouth was dry, his head throbbed painfully, and he was certain that the slightest attempt at movement would cause him to be sick. But if he could fool Lumière into believing that he was not yet awake, then perhaps he could steal a few more hours in which to sleep off his maladies.

Unfortunately, Lumière knew him well enough to call his bluff. A moment later, Adam heard the curtains being pulled aside, and the backs of his eyelids were seared by bright autumn sunlight. This time, he didn't bother to stifle the groan as he turned over and buried his face in his pillow.

"Come now, is that any way to greet the day?" Lumière asked cheerfully.

Adam turned his head and struggled to focus his bleary eyes on the fuzzy, human-shaped form that was moving about his bedroom. Lumière was picking his discarded clothing up from the floor and throwing it into a single pile for the maids to collect. "What's this?" he asked, as his boot clinked dully against a hard object near the foot of the bed. He bent down, and when he stood back up, two empty wine bottles were clutched in his hand. He eyed Adam with concern. "Did you drink_ both_ of these last night?"

Adam propped himself up on his elbows, and a third empty bottle rolled off the side of the bed. It landed softly on the plush rug, and Adam watched it complete a few lazy spins before coming to a stop beneath a chair. He had the decency to look vaguely sheepish when he looked back up at Lumière.

"Oh, Master, how _appalling_," Lumière chided. "Couldn't you find a glass?" He laughed at Adam's disoriented expression, and then he shook his head drolly. "Come, let me help you get dressed. You don't want your lovely fiancée to see you looking like _this_."

The mention of the word "fiancée" brought the events of the previous night rushing back to Adam in a series of disjointed flashes: the dinner with said fiancée, Lady Elisabeth, and her family; the women retiring to the parlor after dinner to gossip, no doubt about the wedding that would take place at the end of the week; his father's orders to entertain Elisabeth's twelve-year-old brother, Denis, while his father, his future father-in-law, and his uncle, the king, discussed "important matters of state;" his bid to hustle the seemingly meek and naive boy over a game of cards and his subsequent forfeit of an entire month's allowance when Denis turned out to be far more cunning than he appeared; and his attempt to soothe his wounded pride with alcohol before stumbling into bed. Suddenly, Adam felt even _less_ like getting out of bed, but he was already on his feet, leaning heavily on Lumière for support.

"Can't you just tell everyone that I'm still sleeping?" Adam begged as Lumière guided him to the dressing table. He flinched when he caught a look at himself in the mirror; he looked like hell. His long auburn hair was disheveled and limp, his complexion had a slightly greenish tinge to it, and his normally brilliant blue eyes were bloodshot and glassy. Prince Charming, he was not.

"I would, Master," Lumière said sympathetically. "But your father has given me orders to send you to his study."

Adam's face crumpled. What had he done _this_ time? Had he offended Denis after their card game last night? He knew he was not one to take losing particularly graciously, even when sober. Make that _especially _when sober. "What does he want?" he finally asked Lumière.

Lumière shrugged. "He didn't say; he only asked me to wake you and send you straight to him."

"Well, I suppose my morning can't get any worse."

"Look on the bright side," Lumière suggested as he tugged Adam's messy hair back into a neat ponytail. "Once you've seen to your business with your father, you're free to enjoy a nice, relaxed morning with Elisabeth. Perhaps you could have some breakfast, or show her around the grounds?"

"Was _that_ supposed to be the bright side?" Adam's eyes searched Lumière's in the mirror; Lumière appeared to be completely sincere.

Lumière tilted his head as he placed the brush on the table. "Elisabeth is a very pretty girl. Don't you think so?"

"She's lovely," Adam agreed, without much conviction. He got up and made his way to his armoire.

"You're not having second thoughts about the wedding, are you?" Lumière asked, trailing behind him.

Adam snorted as he perused a row of suits. "'Second thoughts' would imply that I had some input in the matter in the first place."

"Ah." Lumière nodded his head and sighed in understanding. "If only we could all marry for love."

Adam rolled his eyes; he was in no mood for Lumière's hopeless romanticism at the moment. "Or not at all. My point is, my opinion doesn't matter. It never has. Some duke does my father a favor twenty years ago, and _I'm_ the one who has to repay it by marrying his daughter? How is that fair?"

Lumière shrugged again. "It may seem unfair, but I'm sure there are plenty of young men outside this castle who would trade their hardships for yours."

"Well they're welcome to have her."

Lumière looked at him sharply. "That's not a very nice way to talk about Elisabeth."

"She's a bore," Adam declared flatly.

"How can you know that? Every time the poor girl tries to talk to you, you find some excuse to remove yourself from the conversation."

"That's because the only thing she seems interested in talking about - besides the wedding - are those stupid dogs of hers. If I have to spend the next forty years hearing about those damn dogs, I will never forgive my father."

"The dogs are a bit ... unruly," Lumière conceded as he helped Adam into a dark blue jacket. "But have you stopped to consider how _she_ must feel about all of this? You're as much a stranger to her as she is to you, but on top of that, she's being forced to leave her home and her family behind. Everything here is new to her; perhaps the dogs are simply her way of trying to hold on to something familiar."

Adam wrinkled his nose. "Yes, well, one of those filthy little beasts became a little _too _familiar with my favorite pair of boots. Did you _see_ the size of the hole it chewed in the toe? I'll never be able to get them fixed."

Lumière tried again. "All I'm saying is that you should give Elisabeth a chance. She's a beautiful, refined young lady from a respectable family. And I'm sure you will find that she has other, more appealing interests if you make an effort to know her. Perhaps she will even grow on you. You know, your mother wasn't very fond of your father when they were first married."

"Imagine that."

Lumière placed a hand lightly on Adam's shoulder. "Don't you think that maybe _you_ are being a bit unfair? You may not believe it, but he does have your best interests at heart." Adam pursed his lips doubtfully, and Lumière sighed in defeat. "Fine, then. You'd better get on your way; you don't want to keep him waiting."

* * *

Adam took the long way to his father's suite, purposefully choosing a route that zigzagged through remote castle corridors in an effort to postpone what was certain to be an unpleasant conversation. He could picture his father growing increasingly irritated by the delay, and it satisfied him in some small way to know that at least he still had some influence over _that_. Inevitably, however, he found himself standing outside the study. He took a deep breath, clenched his fist tightly, and then knocked. "_Come in_," came his father's voice through the door.

Prince Édouard was standing next to a book shelf when Adam entered the room. Adam wished he had been sitting. There weren't many people who could make him feel small, but his father was an exception. He was every bit as tall and as muscular as Adam, despite the fact that he was approaching fifty. His once-dark hair had given way to gray years ago, but his brown eyes remained as sharp and as inscrutable as ever. There was something disconcerting to Adam about seeing those eyes looming over him, and he suspected that his father knew it and used it to his advantage. "You wanted to see me?" Adam asked, closing the door gently behind him.

"Have a seat," his father commanded, gesturing to the chair planted in front of the desk. As Adam sat, his father opened the heavy drapes that covered the large window behind the desk. For the second time that morning, Adam winced as the bright sunlight hit him squarely in the face.

"Do you have to do that?" he muttered irritably, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

"Does it bother you?" his father responded sagaciously, watching Adam's face closely as he sank into his seat.

"I have a ... headache," Adam answered.

Prince Édouard sniffed. "If that's all you have after the antics you were up to last night, then you should consider yourself lucky. I asked you to keep Denis occupied, not indoctrinate him into all of your bad habits."

"You told me to keep him _entertained_ \- and he was," Adam retorted.

"I should hope so. I hear it was quite a profitable evening for him."

"Did you call me in here just to scold me over a bad night of cards?" Adam crossed his arms grumpily. There was nothing he felt less like discussing with his father right now than his humiliation at the hands of a child.

Prince Édouard took a long sip of his tea before placing his cup down on the saucer and folding his hands neatly in front of him. "No, actually. I wanted to discuss what's going to happen after the wedding."

Adam's stomach plummeted in horror. Perhaps there _was_ a topic he was less eager to discuss with his father. "Lumière already explained all of that to me!" he cried, leaning forward and waving his outstretched hands frantically in front of him, as if that could somehow stop his father from saying anything more.

"He did?" His father looked mystified.

"Yes, yes! When I was nine!" Did his father _really_ mean to have this discussion _now_?

"But how would he _know_ ..."

"How would _Lumière_ know?" Adam echoed incredulously. "Have you _seen_ him with the maids?"

"What does that have to do with -"

Suddenly, Prince Édouard's eyes went wide, and the color drained from his face. To his credit, he looked as horrified as Adam felt; in fact, Adam didn't think he had ever seen his normally unflappable father so flustered. "_Oh, no. _No, no - you think I - you misunderstand - that's not - _nine_, really?"

"Yes!" Adam cried, trying to look anywhere but at his father.

"Well that seems a bit -," Prince Édouard cut himself off and cleared his throat. "I wasn't referring to _that_. What you ... do on the night of your wedding ... is your business. I was referring to what's going to happen _a few weeks_ after the wedding."

Adam slumped weakly in his chair and let out a long breath. If his father hadn't sent for him in order to lecture him over his previous night's activities or to advise him on the finer points of marital relations, then why _did_ he want to speak to him? Once he had an opportunity to regain his composure, he couldn't help being just a little bit curious about the real reason for his father's summons. "What's happening a few weeks after the wedding?"

"I've volunteered your services for an important bureaucratic assignment."

Adam's curiosity vanished as quickly as it had piqued. "_Oh_. What is it this time?" he sighed, eager to get to the point now that he understood why his father had called him in. "Do you want me to balance the tax ledgers? Or perhaps you have more noble friends in need of babysitters?" He doubted that the assignment was truly that important; tasks for his father tended to be dull and pointless. In fact, Adam suspected that most of them were invented solely as a means of distancing him from any activities or people of which his father disapproved; in other words, from anything _fun_.

"Your uncle and I have something different in mind," Prince Édouard responded, refusing to rise to the bait. "Something that will be slightly more difficult for you to pass off on one of my advisers when you grow bored with it." He paused for a moment, as if considering how to say what he wanted to say next. "You're familiar with the _Compagnie Perpétuelle des Indes_," he finally stated.

It didn't sound like a question, and yet Adam sensed that his father was waiting for him to answer before he continued. "I'm familiar," he said slowly.

"The Company has recently requested a large loan from your uncle in order to make some capital improvements to their ports. The problem is, they're already heavily indebted to the Crown, so he has some valid concerns about their ability to manage further funding."

Adam lifted a shoulder indifferently. "So don't give them the money."

His father smiled as if he had been expecting him to say that. "It's not that simple. Without these improvements, the Company is in real danger of going bankrupt. And if that happens, shareholders like our family and Elisabeth's family stand to lose a lot of money."

"It sounds like we've already lost a lot of money."

"That may be so," Prince Édouard acknowledged. "But your uncle believes that with more vigilant oversight, they could actually begin to turn a profit."

"So what does this have to do with me?" Adam asked warily.

"We've decided to send envoys to each of the port cities to report back on their specific needs and to supervise spending on the new infrastructure. _You_ have been selected to be part of the delegation to Port Louis."

Adam bolted upright in his chair. "But that's in_ Île de France_!" he protested.

"I'm glad to see that all the money I spent on your tutors wasn't _entirely_ wasted," Prince Édouard observed wryly.

"You can't be serious! There's nothing _there_ for me!" Adam sputtered incredulously.

"Except for your _job_," he father reminded him pointedly. "Which you'll be free to do without distraction."

Adam was numb. He didn't know much about the island territory except that it was hot and humid and very far from home_. _And if his father was sending him there, it undoubtedly lacked any of the comforts - or _amusements_ \- to which he was accustomed. "How long do you expect me to be there?"

"A few months, most likely. It depends on how much work needs to be done, and how quickly it progresses. Your uncle has sent a letter to the governor asking him to make arrangements for your stay. Once we've received confirmation from the governor, we can plan for your departure."

"But what about Elisabeth?" Adam argued, desperately clinging to anything that might allow him to wriggle out of this unwanted assignment. "You don't really expect me to leave her here alone so soon after we've been married?"

"Elisabeth won't be alone; her sister will be staying here while you're gone. I've already discussed it with their father, and he agrees that her company will go a long way toward relieving any sense of homesickness. But I'm sure she appreciates your concern."

"Elisabeth's _father_ knows about this? _Wait_," Adam said suddenly, jumping to his feet. "You told _him_ about this before you told _me_?"

"Sit _down_, Adam," his father ordered.

"I won't! How long has he known about this? Who _else_ already knows about it?"

"Everyone who_ needs_ to know," his father replied.

"Everyone except for _me_!" Adam cried, backing toward the door.

"I'm telling you _now_! Now sit down, and stop acting like a child so that we can discuss this reasonably!"

"What's to discuss?" Adam complained bitterly. "It sounds like you and your friend the Duke already have everything worked out!" He pushed the door open so forcefully in his haste to exit his father's study that he nearly slammed into Cogsworth, who had been waiting in the hallway. Cogsworth yelped indignantly as he attempted to regain his balance, but Adam was already halfway down the hall by the time he got his feet back under him. Adam stalked through the corridors with no real sense of where he was heading. He no longer had the appetite for breakfast, but he was far too agitated to attempt going back to sleep. And he had _no_ desire to run into any of his guests. As he fumed over his conversation with his father, he realized that his earlier prediction had been wrong. His morning, had, in fact, gotten much worse.

* * *

_Muchas gracias to TrudiRose for helping me with this first chapter and to the folks at Bittersweet and Strange for allowing me to bounce ideas for this story off of them._

_I also owe a thank you to The Green Archer, who suggested the new and improved story title. Now with 50% less pretension!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

Prince Édouard rested his elbows on his desk and massaged his temples slowly. How was it that Adam always managed to exasperate him so easily? Édouard could keep a level head when negotiating with the most contentious of diplomats, but even a perfectly well-intentioned conversation with his son inevitably devolved into a minefield of misunderstandings and perceived insults. Adam fought his every demand, and rebuffed all of his attempts to offer advice. Anything he asked of Adam, his son did the opposite, oftentimes seemingly just to spite him.

It hadn't always been that way; he could still recall - admittedly with some difficulty - the sweet, easygoing little boy that Adam had once been. But after his mother's death, the boy had started to change. Prince Édouard had been too consumed with his own heartache and with the day-to-day responsibilities of running the province to notice it - or to notice much of anything - at first. But eventually, the changes had become too obvious for even him to overlook; his beloved son had grown willful, self-centered, and distant. The servants had initially suggested that it was simply a phase, a teenager's way of grieving, and that it would pass with time. But instead, time only seemed to have left Adam even more disaffected and more determined to squander everything that his father had worked to give him.

"Ahem."

Prince Édouard's eyes snapped open to find Cogsworth hovering uncertainly in the open doorway to his study. He hadn't realized that there had been anyone else in the hallway, and suddenly he wondered how much of Adam's outburst his majordomo had just witnessed. "Yes, Cogsworth. Come in."

Cogsworth lingered for a moment in the threshold before entering the room. "I, er, take it Master Adam has some concerns about the plans to send him to Port Louis?" Well, that answered _that_ question.

"You take it correctly," Prince Édouard snapped. Cogsworth flinched, and Édouard immediately felt a twinge of guilt for taking his frustrations with his son out on the servants. "I'm sorry, Cogsworth," he apologized wearily. "Did you need something?"

"The king would like to speak with you as soon as it is convenient."

"Thank you, Cogsworth. Please tell him I will meet him in his quarters."

"Shall I have Mrs. Potts send in some tea?"

"Please do."

Cogsworth nodded and turned to leave.

"Cogsworth?" Prince Édouard called hesitantly.

Cogsworth froze with his hand stretched toward the door. He dropped his arm and turned back slowly. "Yes, sire?"

"Do you think I'm making a mistake sending Adam on this trip?" Cogsworth didn't reply right away, but the skittish look in his eyes and the way that his entire body visibly tensed told Prince Édouard what he wanted to know. "That's all right," he sighed. "You don't have to answer that."

"I think ... Your Majesty," Cogsworth faltered. "That is - are you _sure_ that he's up to the task?"

Prince Édouard frowned thoughtfully. "Of course he's up to it. Adam is _smart_. And capable. I wouldn't have volunteered him for this assignment if I didn't believe that; there's too much at stake."

"Are you certain, though, that now is the best time to send him away? First the wedding, and now this - it just seems like a lot of ... upheaval ... in a short amount of time. And you know he doesn't deal well with change."

"I realize the timing isn't ideal," Prince Édouard admitted. "But what else could I do? I've been urging Louis to rein in the Company for years. And this is the perfect opportunity to break Adam of his perpetual directionless slump. If he wants to come home to his comfortable life, he'll have no choice but to buckle down and get the job done. And without the usual team of lackeys to pass the work off to, he'll have to do it _himself_. He's capable of more than drinking, gambling, and idle foolishness. I _want_ more than that for him. And maybe once he's had a taste of it, he'll want more for himself."

Cogsworth didn't quite look convinced, but he nodded stiffly. "As you say. Perhaps this trip will accomplish what your previous efforts have not. We can only hope."

"We can only hope," Prince Édouard agreed.

* * *

Belle was lost in the latest chapter of her new book when the door to the cottage suddenly banged open, jerking her abruptly back to reality. Her father stumbled into the room, his right hand tightly clutching the thumb of his left. He hadn't bothered to remove his safety goggles, which gave his watering eyes a wide, slightly panicky look.

Belle stood up quickly. "Papa! What happened?"

"It's nothing, it's nothing," Maurice waved her off. "I gave my thumb a good shot with the hammer, that's all."

Belle let out a sigh of relief. As far as her father's workshop mishaps tended to go, an errant hammer was relatively tame. She placed her book face-down on the chair and approached him slowly. "Over here," she said, guiding him into the small kitchen. "Let me have a look at it." She sat her father at the little table, and then, gently, she pried his fingers away from the injured thumb, which had already swollen to nearly twice its normal size. She sucked in a breath through her teeth. "Oh, Papa."

"It's nothing," Maurice insisted. "It looks much worse than it is."

Belle looked at him doubtfully. "Maybe you should take a break for a little while," she suggested.

Her father was aghast. "Nonsense! This is nothing! Besides, I only have five days to make sure the machine is working properly before I leave for the inventors' fair - there's no _time_ for breaks!"

"Oh." Belle looked down contritely. "Well, if that's the case, I understand. You should go ahead and get back to work. I suppose I'll just have to eat this tart that I baked all by myself," she added, almost under her breath.

Maurice perked up curiously. "Tart?" he echoed, craning his neck and casting a searching glance around the kitchen. "What_ kind_ of tart?"

"Apple," Belle replied casually, knowing full well that she was naming her father's favorite kind of pastry.

"Well ... I suppose I could take just a _short_ break ...," Maurice hedged.

"Are you sure?" Belle asked, standing and turning quickly so that her father wouldn't see her sly smile. It felt a little silly to have to resort to such trickery just to ensure that he was taking proper care of himself, but with the inventors' fair barely a week away, it had grown more difficult than usual to coax him out of his workshop. On most days, she was lucky if she could convince him to come in for meals and a few hours of sleep at night.

"The machine isn't going anywhere," Maurice chuckled. "Not unless I put wheels on it. _Ah_!" he gasped suddenly, and Belle could practically see the gears in his head whirring to life. He pulled a pencil and a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and then he began to scribble furiously.

Belle just shook her head as she placed a slice of the tart in front of him. "Have you tested it out yet?"

"Not yet, but I expect to have it ready for some test runs tonight. So don't be too alarmed if you hear a lot of noise coming from the cellar later. _Mmm_ ..." He sighed and patted his rounded belly contently as he swallowed a bite of the tart. "Has M. Verger already started harvesting the apples?"

"Yes," Belle nodded. "Those were just picked this morning."

"I'll be darned." Maurice shook his head in wonder. "Autumn just crept right up on me! So did you have a good time in town? I hope you remembered to bring a shawl."

Belle shrugged. "I found the apples. And I had a nice conversation with M. Marchand; he lent me a new book, it only just came in yesterday."

"And here I thought you'd be tired of hanging around with old men after all the time you've spent helping me with this invention."

Belle looked at her father in surprise. "You know I enjoy helping you."

Maurice smiled kindly. "And I enjoy your help. But that isn't exactly what I meant." When Belle's only response was a puzzled expression, he went on. "What I meant was, I just assumed that part of the reason you went into town was to spend some time around people who are a little closer to your own age. Nothing against M. Marchand, but he makes_ me_ look like a spring chicken. Do you ever talk to any of the other young men and women in the village?"

"I wouldn't know what to talk to them _about_," Belle admitted. "We don't really have much in common; actually, I think most of them think I'm ... odd." _And you don't want to know what they say about _you, she mused sadly. Although few of the townspeople were rude enough to say anything to her face, she had overheard enough of them joking about "Crazy Old Maurice" behind her back to know what they truly thought of her father.

"Well what about that Gaston fellow who comes calling around every so often? He seems quite fond of you. And he's handsome, isn't he?"

Belle groaned. "He's handsome," she agreed. "And he'll remind you of that fact every chance he gets, as if being good looking could make up for all of his other shortcomings. Do you know that when I told him he was primeval, he actually thought I was _complimenting_ him?"

Maurice coughed on a piece of tart that caught in his throat. "You didn't _really_ tell him that, did you?" he gasped out, in a slightly reproving tone.

"Of course I did. _Oh_, don't look at me like that, Papa - like I said, he thought it was a compliment. And I only said it after _he_ insinuated that it was wrong for a woman to read, because it would lead to her thinking for herself. Can you _imagine_?"

Maurice smirked. "Well he obviously doesn't know _you_ very well."

"That's just it!" Belle threw her hands up in frustration. "And he doesn't _care_ to - none of them do. I know you're concerned, Papa, but I just don't think I'll ever fit in here," she sighed, dropping her chin onto her hand.

Maurice reached over and patted her hand comfortingly. "I hadn't planned for us to stay in this town for as long as we have, but that doesn't mean that we'll be stuck here forever. I have a really good feeling about this invention; if it works the way I think it will, it'll revolutionize the way we go about our housework. And if it places at the fair, I'll be coming home with a nice bit of prize money. It could be enough for the two of us to start over somewhere new, and for me to finally give you the life you _deserve_."

"Oh, _Papa_, there's nothing wrong with the life you've given me," Belle assured him earnestly. Shamefully, it occurred to her just how ungrateful she had sounded. In truth, they didn't have a bad life. They weren't wealthy by any means, but they were comfortable. They had the necessities, and enough money to occasionally splurge on a new book for her or the latest tool for her father's collection. And in between her chores, she had plenty of time to read. But her father hadn't been completely off the mark when he had suggested that it would do her some good to make friends with some of the other villagers - life as the local outcast could be incredibly _lonely_ sometimes. "Maybe you're right; maybe I just need to make more of an effort to be friendly with the others."

"Don't let them make you feel bad," Maurice advised her. "It's not your fault if they're too blind to appreciate how extraordinary you are."

Belle smiled at him fondly; it was if he had read her mind. "Are you finished?" she asked, gesturing for his empty plate.

Maurice passed it to her and yawned loudly. "Oh, dear. What did you put in this tart?"

Belle laughed. "Why don't you go lie down for a while?"

"No, no, I've got to get back to work." Maurice rose and shook his head stubbornly, as if trying to shake off the drowsiness that had suddenly overcome him. "I'm so close to finishing this thing. And I want to see if I can build this new feature into it before the fair!" he announced, waving his rumpled sketch.

"Well, all right. Just don't forget to come back in for dinner," Belle reminded him.

"Of course, of course. Now, what did I do with those spare wagon wheels I was saving ...," Maurice muttered to himself. A moment later, he was out the door, leaving Belle alone with her book once more.

* * *

_Thank you again to TrudiRose for her help in fine tuning this chapter!  
_


	3. Chapter 3

Adam paced the West Wing like a caged animal, his fury over the meeting with his father building steadily. _What is he trying to do? Does he think I'm one of those meek little peasants over whom he rules, happy to stand by and allow him to dictate every aspect of my life? _ It was bad enough that he was forcing Adam into an arranged marriage, but at least Adam had had a few years to get used to the idea and to make his grudging peace with it. He supposed that he could tolerate being wed to a stranger as long as he could continue to enjoy his money, his title, and the run of his large, luxurious castle. But that would not be the case in some dingy colony on the other side of the world. His father had assured him that the assignment would only last for a few months, but that was already a few months too long. And who knew what new ways his father would invent to ruin his life when he returned?

_There's no way in hell I'm going to give him that opportunity_, Adam fumed. It was time for him to start taking matters into his own hands. He flung open the doors of his wardrobe and began yanking the clothing off of the hangers at random, stuffing the items into a satchel at his feet without even stopping to see what he was grabbing. When he had fit as much into the satchel as he could, he tugged the top drawer of his desk open and grabbed a fistful of bills, loudly lamenting the fact that he had less cash on hand than usual after losing so much of it to Elisabeth's little brother. Adrenaline coursed through Adam's body as he ransacked his quarters, looking for anything of value that he could trade for money. His palms sweated, and all of his synapses seemed to be firing at once. He could barely keep his mind focused from one thought to the next. All he knew was that he couldn't sit still; he needed to keep moving. When he cracked his elbow on the door of the armoire, he shook it off, the pain registering as barely more than a tingle running down his forearm.

And then, without warning, Adam's legs began to tremble, and he sank heavily into the chair at his desk. He took a few shaky breaths and looked over at the satchel on the bed. _What am I _doing_? Do I really think I can just ... run away from all of this?_ _ And even if I _could_ just slip out of the castle and disappear into the countryside, what would I do then?_ The resources he could carry with him wouldn't last forever, and he had no skills on which he could rely to support himself; sooner or later, he was bound to end up a penniless drifter, and that was hardly an improvement over his current circumstances. He might be trapped under his father's thumb here, but aside from that he led a pretty comfortable life. Could he really give up his status and all of his worldly possessions, for good, just for the sake of sticking it to his father? He knew the answer: there wasn't much point in running if he had nothing to run _toward_. Angrily, Adam punched the wall, only to recoil in pain when his knuckles met the hard plaster. Rubbing his hand gingerly, he cursed.

And then he slumped over the desk, resting his head on his folded forearms. Adam had to give his father credit: he'd really backed him into a corner this time. Adam couldn't remember ever feeling so utterly powerless. Unless he was able to talk his father out of his plans - and there was very little chance of _that_, if history was any indication - he would be shipped off to some godforsaken port town in a matter of weeks.

As Adam pushed himself up onto his elbows, a piece of paper fluttered from the desk to the ground. Adam bent to pick it up, quickly recognizing the document by the slanting, masculine handwriting; it was a letter from his cousin, Charles, apologizing for the fact that he would be unable to attend Adam's wedding.

And that was yet _another_ reason to resent his impending nuptials: his best friend would not be there to provide a respite from all of the hangers-on flocking to the ceremony. Adam and Charles had been born only a few months apart: Charles as the youngest of six siblings, by many years, and Adam as his parents' only child. They had grown up as close as brothers, tormenting the staff of two households with their constant pranks and general mischief. Their antics became less outrageous in nature as they grew older, but their bond never wavered; they remained fast friends and trusted confidants. However, Charles had recently married a princess of the Hohenzollern line and now resided in an opulent palace on the other side of the Prussian border. Adam had traveled to Prussia for the wedding several months earlier, and he and Charles had spent a long afternoon commiserating over their misgivings about their respective marriages. Adam remembered joking at the time that at least Charles was getting a better castle out of his arrangement.

Abruptly, Adam sat up with a start. Charles's castle - that was it! He would escape to Charles's castle in Prussia! Charles was a kindred spirit; if anyone would empathize with Adam's plight and take him in, it was his cousin. And this plan solved all of Adam's problems: he could live out his days in comfort _and_ freedom as Charles's guest. It would be just like old times - _only without my father looking over our shoulders_, Adam realized gleefully. With a renewed sense of hope, Adam hurried down to the library. He needed to look at some maps.

* * *

_Is it too soon to get out of here? _Adam wondered as he surveyed the crowded ballroom. The last of the wedding guests had arrived that afternoon, and his father had organized a banquet that evening, ostensibly to welcome the visitors to the castle. _More likely, he just wanted another opportunity to show off in front of his well-heeled friends_, Adam thought resentfully. Really, what was the purpose of holding a banquet the night before the wedding, when it would only be followed by an even more extravagant celebration the next day?

Adam was just about to try to sneak out when a tall, lanky young man sauntered up to him. "Congratulations, Your Highness," the man offered.

"Thank you." Adam forced a smile and shook his well-wisher's hand, trying not to appear overly puzzled as he struggled to identify the man. He was a lord of something-or-other, of that much Adam was certain.

The man's wife laughed. She, too, looked familiar, but Adam could not place her. "Darling, don't you know it's bad luck to congratulate a man before his wedding? You're supposed to wait until _after_ the ceremony."

The man grinned at Adam ruefully. "Then please accept my apologies; I wouldn't want to be responsible for any bad luck befalling your marriage. I shall save the congratulations for tomorrow," he added with a tipsy salute of his empty glass.

"Apology accepted. And I look forward to accepting your felicitations tomorrow," Adam lied. He had no intention of being there to accept _anyone's _felicitations tomorrow, but there was no need to share that bit of information with Lord Whatshisname. Not that the man was likely to remember much of the conversation even five minutes from now, Adam mused as he watched him stagger after a tray of champagne flutes floating through the crowd.

"Lumière," he said, flagging down the maître d', "would you please inform my father that I am turning in early?"

Lumière blinked in surprise. "But Master, the festivities have barely begun. And you are the guest of honor!"

Adam resisted the urge to snort; he highly doubted that any of this pageantry was for _his _benefit. "I want to get a good night's sleep, so that I can be rested for the ceremony in the morning," he replied. "There will be plenty of time to celebrate tomorrow."

Now Lumière looked even more astonished. "Well that's ... very sensible of you, Master. I will let your father know that you have retired for the evening."

"Thank you, Lumière." Adam bid him good night, and then slipped out of the ballroom before he could be accosted by any more of his father's intoxicated friends.

It was all he could do not to sprint to the West Wing, and he leaned against the double doors when they finally shut behind him, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He cast a longing look at his large, plush bed, knowing that despite what he had told Lumière, he would not be sleeping any time soon. Then he marched to the wardrobe and shed his finely tailored suit for a pair of nondescript breeches and a simple cotton shirt.

From his desk, he retrieved two maps. The first map charted a route to Charles's castle in Prussia, taking care to avoid any roads that were likely to be heavily traveled. It would take him a bit longer to reach his destination that way, but if he was going to do this, he wasn't going to take the chance of ruining everything by attracting attention. He slid this map into his satchel. The second map traced a route that led toward Paris, which was in precisely the _opposite_ direction of his destination. He left this second map in the open, spread out on his desk, so that the servants would be certain to find it when they came looking for him in the morning. It was his hope that his father would assume he was heading for the capital, and that any guards who were sent in pursuit would be sent in that direction. If he was lucky, he'd be toasting his freedom in Charles's castle long before the guards realized that they were being led on a wild goose chase.

He opened the satchel and reviewed its contents, trying to shake the feeling that he was forgetting some essential item. He had remembered to pack the basic necessities: some bread and cheese he had swiped from the kitchens, a canteen, spare clothing, and as much money as he could carry. He had also taken a few small personal items and pieces of jewelry that held particular significance for him, most notable among them being his mother's ring. It was a family heirloom that she had given to him when he was a boy, a wide golden band etched with her family crest and bearing a large, round sapphire. He carried it with him everywhere as a reminder of her, and had developed a habit of running his thumb over the stone whenever he was in need of reassurance or luck. Satisfied that he had everything he needed for his journey, he pocketed the ring and tossed the satchel back on the bed.

And then he waited. A tiny part of him had been afraid that, when the time finally came to set out, he would lose his nerve. But those final hours in his room only seemed to strengthen his resolve; if anything, he was more impatient than ever to put his plan into action. But he knew that if he made his move too soon, he risked getting caught, particularly with all of the additional people now milling about the castle.

Finally, just before midnight, Adam threw a cloak over his shoulders and cautiously emerged from the West Wing. The banquet would have ended by then, leaving the castle quiet save for the servants sweeping away the remnants of the evening's revelry. As long as he was careful to avoid any pathways that led past the ballroom or the kitchens, he was confident that he would have little trouble slipping out undetected. He made his way briskly down the hallways, his senses alert for any sign of company, but he encountered no one.

Adam was starting to feel positively giddy as he turned down the hall of armor on the second floor; this was almost _too_ easy. Granted, he had grown quite adept at sneaking out over the years, but at this rate he would be out the door in record time. The staircase to the main floor was just around the next corner. All he had to do was make it down the stairs, through the back hall, and out the side entrance into the little courtyard. Once outside, he would be home free.

Suddenly, Adam heard a giggle behind him. He spun, and saw two shadowy figures stumbling into the hallway. "Are you _sure_ this is the way to our room?" a female voice asked.

"Of course - _hic_! - of course I'm sure!" her male companion slurred. "I have an impeccable sense of direction!" Adam's head screamed at his feet to run, but his feet refused to obey. For several seconds he stood rooted to the spot, his eyes darting frantically up and down the corridor for a place to hide. Finally, his feet seemed to get his brain's message, and he dove between two suits of armor that were lined up along the wall. "What was that?" the man gasped.

"What was what?"

"I saw something _move_. There, by the armor!" Adam plastered himself against the wall, desperately trying to still his shaking limbs. Was this how all of his painstaking plans would come undone? Foiled by a couple of drunken party guests who had simply strayed down the wrong hallway?

"You saw the armor _move_? Exactly how much champagne _did_ you have to drink?" the woman asked teasingly.

"It wasn't the armor, it was something else! On the - _hic!_ \- on the left! No - I mean on the right!" Adam heard tentative footsteps drawing near, and he squeezed his eyes shut, silently praying that the man would not come any closer to investigate. His mind raced as he tried to think up a plausible excuse for lurking around the hallways in the middle of the night; _why_ hadn't he thought to come up with a cover story in case he got caught?

"Why is it so dark in here?" the unseen man muttered, now only mere feet away judging by the stench of alcohol wafting on the air.

"It _is_ dark," the woman agreed. "Maybe what you saw was just a trick of the light?" Suddenly, there was a yelp, a crash, and the sound of metal clattering loudly to the hard stone floor. "Bernard, are you all right?" she exclaimed.

"I'm fine," the man groaned. "But I think I might have knocked off a piece of this fellow's armor."

"A_ piece_? Bernard, you knocked over the whole suit!"

"Calm down, Margaux. I can put it back together. I squired for - _hic!_ \- for the greatest knight in our kingdom when I was a boy. I used to be able to assemble a suit of armor with my eyes closed."

"Well maybe you should open them now, because I don't think that's where that piece goes."

"Hmmm ... no, maybe not. Hand me that helmet over there, would you?"

"I think that's a knee."

"I _thought_ his head looked a little small."

"And _I_ think we should get out of here before someone finds us and sees what you've done," Margaux suggested nervously. "Besides, I don't remember passing all of this armor on our way to our room earlier."

"Well ...," Bernard trailed off uncertainly. "You know, maybe this _isn't_ the way to our room. I think we might have taken a wrong turn at that ugly tapestry."

There was the sound of something metallic being dropped, and a series of grunts as Bernard presumably got back to his feet. Adam waited until he could no longer hear the couple's hurried footsteps retreating down the hall, and then he counted another minute down in his head for good measure. Then he let out a long breath and pushed himself away from the wall. Despite his buzzing nerves, he couldn't prevent a shaky little laugh from escaping his lips when he emerged from his hiding spot. An entire suit of armor lay scattered in pieces on the floor. From the look of things, the couple had tried to reassemble some of the pieces and had failed miserably. He nudged the helmet with the toe of his boot and shook his head in amusement. From this point on, he vowed, he would not allow himself to get too cocky. He would save the self-congratulatory attitude until he was safely ensconced in his cousin's castle.

Adam gratefully sucked in a lungful of crisp night air when he finally made it out onto the grounds. Fortunately, there had been no further mishaps after his close encounter with Bernard and Margaux; as far as he could tell, no one had seen him sneak out of the castle. He cautiously tiptoed around the edge of the wide lawn, making his way toward the stables.

The horse in the first stall whinnied softly as Adam opened the door. Adam shushed her and tossed an apple over the gate before continuing on to a stall about a third of the way down the aisle. He peeked inside; his horse, Étienne, blinked back at him from the other side of the gate. "Hey, boy," Adam greeted him quietly, pulling another apple out of his satchel. He swung the gate open and entered the stall as Étienne munched happily on his treat. Adam retrieved the saddle pad, saddle, and bridle from the hooks mounted on the far wall, and as he proceeded to saddle Étienne in the darkened carrel, he silently thanked his mother for insisting that he learn to manage at least this task for himself.

Once Étienne was properly outfitted, Adam slowly led the horse to a remote area of the grounds that he knew to be unguarded. There was a gap in the walls here, a rift of crumbling stone concealed by a thick curtain of moss. The gap had been there for as long as Adam could remember; he and Charles had discovered it as children and had sworn each other to secrecy over its existence. Over the years, Adam had used it as his own private exit and entrance when he wanted to sneak out of the castle without alerting his father to his activities. Tonight, he would use it one last time.

They pushed through the moss and emerged on the other side of the wall, and only then did Adam mount his horse. He cast a final look over his shoulder at the castle, taking a few seconds to appreciate how tranquil it looked in the middle of the night. He imagined the pandemonium that would erupt hours later, when his absence was discovered, and for the briefest moment he felt a pang of guilt. And then the moment passed, and he turned his horse toward the woods.

* * *

_Thanks again to TrudiRose, who helped see the original version of this chapter through some major reconstructive surgery! _


	4. Chapter 4

The sky was just beginning to darken when Adam spied what appeared to be a little town off in the distance, tucked away in a valley along the river. It would be a good place to stop for the night, he thought with relief. He had ridden through the early morning and for most of the day, only stopping occasionally for food or rest. His horse was overdue for a longer break, and, he mused as he shifted his weight in the saddle, so was he. Still, he couldn't help but feel a certain amount of exhilaration in spite of his weariness. If his father had had his way, Adam would probably be rubbing elbows with his wedding guests at this very moment. Instead, he was - well, he wasn't quite _sure_ where he was. The town was so little that it didn't even seem to merit a mention on his map. But the name of the place didn't really matter, he reasoned as he steered Étienne down the hill. By morning, he would be back on the road, and the town would be nothing more than a distant memory.

The sun had set by the time Adam finally crossed the little bridge that led into the village, and candles burned brightly in the lanterns that hung above the wide cobblestone streets. The modest buildings that he rode past were clearly built some time ago, but they appeared to be well-maintained. The shops that they housed were shuttered for the night, but the signs above the doors advertised the typical types of businesses: a baker, a butcher, a tailor, and even a book seller. He reached the center of the town - an unremarkable little square occupied by a small stone fountain - in barely more time than it took him to blink. All in all, there wasn't much to distinguish this place from any of the other poor, provincial towns that Adam's mother used to take him to visit when he was a boy.

There was one storefront overlooking the square that, unlike the rest, appeared to show some signs of activity. Light glowed warmly through the windows, and a thick plume of smoke rose up from the chimney. Looking more closely, Adam determined that it was an inn, which was exactly what he had been hoping to find. He hitched Étienne up to the post in front of the inn and gave him an affectionate pat on the nose; Étienne nuzzled his hand expectantly in response. "All right," Adam laughed. "I know what you're looking for." His horse had done his job today, and Adam would see to it that Étienne was rewarded with a well-deserved meal once he located the owner of the establishment.

Adam pushed open the heavy wooden door and was immediately greeted by a roar of raucous laughter. The streets outside had been quiet and desolate, but that was clearly not the case in here; it looked as if half the town was gathered around the tables of the first-floor tavern. The place was so noisy and crowded that no one seemed to notice the stranger hovering in the doorway - or if they did notice, they paid him no mind. In fact, Adam found that it was nearly impossible to get the attention of anyone who seemed to be in a position to assist him.

A slightly flustered-looking blonde woman in a red dress bustled quickly past the door, clutching a handful of empty mugs and a damp bar towel. Something about her purposeful gait suggested that she knew her way around the place, so Adam made to follow her when he was stopped by a sudden tug on his cloak.

"Are ya looking for something?" a nasally voice asked.

Adam turned in the direction of the voice, and frowned when he found himself facing nothing but empty air. And then he looked down. Standing before him was a short, homely fellow with a large nose and a goofy, gap-toothed grin. If it weren't for the bags under his eyes and the smattering of broken capillaries across his cheeks, Adam almost would have mistaken him for a child.

"Are you the proprietor?" Adam asked.

"Am I the _what_?" The man gawked at him, confusion evident on his flushed face.

"Is this your tavern?" Adam asked impatiently. _Peasants_, he thought with disdain.

"Oh! No - but hang on a second and I'll get him." The little guy turned back toward the crowd and drew in a deep breath. _"Gastoooon_!"

All conversation seemed to cease for a few brief seconds as he bellowed across the room, and heads turned in unison toward an armchair sitting beside the fireplace. There was a man reclining in the chair, but he straightened abruptly when Adam's diminutive companion called out. The man rose slowly from his seat, with all the grandeur of a king rising from his throne, and Adam could hardly stop himself from gaping when he finally got a good look at him; he was enormous! He was at least as tall as Adam, but with broad shoulders and bulging muscles that threatened to split his tightly-fitted tunic. His bright blue eyes were set above high cheekbones and a square jaw, and his chin boasted a cleft so deep it could crack a walnut.

"What is it, Lefou?" he asked, as he approached the spot where Adam was standing. He didn't shout, and yet his deep, booming voice seemed to fill the entire tavern.

"This guy was looking for you," the little man replied, jerking a thumb in Adam's direction.

"I was hoping to rent a room for the night," Adam explained.

"Is it just you?" Gaston asked.

"Yes. Well - I've also got a horse. He's out front," Adam responded.

"Lefou, bring the man's horse into the stables." Lefou nodded and scampered away obediently. As the door to the tavern swung open, Adam caught a brief glimpse of Étienne hitched to the post outside. "What's your name?"

Adam turned back to Gaston. "Huh?"

"Your name?"

"Oh, uh ...," Adam trailed off, looking again toward the door. "It's ... Étienne."

"Follow me, Étienne. I've got just the room for you."

"Just the room" for him turned out to be a tiny little space crammed beneath a second-story dormer. There was barely enough room for a bed, a nightstand, and a chair, and Adam had to duck in certain spots to avoid striking his head on the sloping ceiling. It was a far cry from his lavish suite in the West Wing, but he reminded himself that it was only for the one night. He stretched out on the narrow bed and closed his eyes, but realized quickly that he wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon; _no one_ could sleep through the racket coming from the floor below.

Since sleep didn't seem to be in the cards at the moment, Adam decided to settle for the next best thing: food. He made his way back down to the tavern and found himself a vacant table close to the fireplace. He slid the empty mugs that the table's previous occupants had left behind out of the way as he scanned the floor for the barmaid, but she was nowhere to be seen.

As he took in his surroundings, one thing struck him almost immediately: whoever had decorated this place sure did like antlers. They adorned the chandeliers, the hearth, the frame of the portrait hanging above the mantle, and the armchair that Gaston had been lounging in earlier. And that didn't even include the magnificent array of hunting trophies mounted on either side of the portrait. In addition to the heads of several large bucks, the display included a boar, a ram, a bear, an eagle, and a moose. A full bearskin rug even graced the floor before the fireplace. Adam had never enjoyed hunting much; he typically preferred the carousing that _followed_ a successful hunting expedition to the outing itself. However, he had seen his fair share of trophy collections in the estates of various local aristocrats, and this one easily topped them all.

"Gaston killed every one of them himself."

The unfamiliar voice in his ear nearly made Adam jump. He turned to see the barmaid leaning on the edge of his table, so close that she could practically share his seat. She was gazing up at the wall with an expression of such reverence that he almost felt as if he were intruding on a moment of private meditation. _Should I say something_? he wondered, as she continued to stare, silent and starry-eyed, at the display. Immediately, he chided himself; _she_ was the one imposing on _his_ solitude, not the other way around. And he definitely wasn't keen on the idea of some dopey stranger hovering over him all night. "That's ... uh ... that's very impressive," he finally stammered out in an attempt to shake her from her reverie.

The praise seemed to please her. "Isn't it?" she sighed. "There's no beast alive that stands a chance against him." He wasn't quite sure how to respond to _that_, but she saved him from having to by abruptly changing course. "You're not from here," she observed, fixing her wide green eyes on him.

"No," Adam agreed uneasily. He wasn't sure if he liked the personal turn that the conversation had suddenly taken, or the validation of the fact that he stood out even in this crowded tavern. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention to himself.

"Where _are_ you from?"

"Nowhere you've been, I'm sure," Adam responded curtly, hoping that she would take the hint and stop asking him about himself. Unfortunately, the hint seemed to sail right over her pretty blonde head.

"Oh, I'm sure it isn't _that_ bad," she assured him cheerfully, lightly touching his shoulder. Adam grunted noncommittally. "Are you visiting someone here, then?"

"I'm just passing through." _Are ordinary women always this chatty?_ he wondered uncomfortably.

"That's a shame," she replied, pouting playfully at him. _Is she _flirting _with me_? Adam realized incredulously. Not that the idea itself was so hard to believe; he was aware that women found him attractive. And he was used to fielding fairly regular advances from some of the bolder young ladies of the court (and even, in some cases, from their mothers). But he doubted that this simple barmaid would have the cheek to be so forward with him if she knew who he really was. "Where are you going?" she pressed on, when he failed to respond to her friendly banter.

"I'm visiting family," Adam replied, with a trace of impatience. He needed to change the subject, and quickly. But before he could figure out how, one of his fellow bar patrons did it for him.

"Camille!" a heavy-set, bearded man hollered. "My beer is empty!"

The woman exhaled in a huff of exasperation. "Well maybe that's because you drank it too fast, Thomas!" she shouted back.

"Maybe you should get me another!" he countered.

"Maybe you should say 'please!'" she suggested sweetly.

"Would you_ pleeeease_ stop batting your eyes at the customers and bring me another beer?"

She sighed and turned back to Adam. "Just for that, I'm going to make him wait even longer," she confided mischievously. "While I'm getting his beer, do _you_ need anything?"

"_Yes_," Adam replied emphatically, grateful to steer the conversation toward less personal matters. "Please," he added, when she raised a brow at him.

"What can I bring you?"

Adam glanced over at the nearest table, where three men were feasting upon plates piled high with what looked like melted cheese, a few small potatoes, and some kind of dried meat. Just the sight of it made his mouth water, and it occurred to him that it had been at least a full day since he'd eaten a proper meal.

"What is that?" he asked, gesturing to their plates.

She gave him a curious look. "Haven't you ever had raclette?"

"No."

"Where did you say you were from again?" she asked coyly.

Adam chose to ignore the question. "I'll have that. And some wine." She gave him another queer look, and he caught himself. "Er - beer," he amended. She nodded approvingly before hurrying off to collect Thomas's empty mug.

Adam sat back in his chair, relaxing a bit now that his nosy new friend was finally gone. His eyes slowly swept the tavern, observing the clientele with mild curiosity. They were clearly all commoners, and residents of the village most likely, because who in his right mind would have any reason to _visit_ such a mundane little town as this one? The scrawny fellow with the sooty cheeks and the barking cough was surely the local chimney sweep, and the group of men sitting at the next table, with the weathered faces and sweat-stained bandanas tied around their necks, were probably laborers of some sort. As Adam's gaze drifted from table to table, he amused himself by trying to figure out what the occupants of each did for a living.

The only ones he couldn't quite place were the two large red-haired men who sat hunched over the table in the corner, talking intently. Well, _one_ of them was talking anyway. The other - the one with the eye patch - seemed to be doing much more listening than talking. His face was grim, and every now and then he would scratch his sideburn and nod firmly at something that his companion said. For some reason, the pair fascinated Adam; he couldn't tear his eyes from them as he imagined what they could possibly be discussing with such seriousness. And then, suddenly, the quiet one looked up. His eyes locked with Adam's, and he grinned slowly. Adam shuddered and quickly looked away. Something about the man's smile unsettled him, and it had nothing to do with his eye patch, or the long, jagged scar that marred his chin. These were not some harmless rubes from the village, Adam realized. They were dangerous, and it would be best to avoid crossing paths with them.

The barmaid returned with his food, but it wasn't until after she had moved on to attend to another patron that he realized she had forgotten the beer. Too hungry to wait for it, Adam eagerly dug into his meal and was surprised to find that it wasn't half bad. It was salty and rich, and it quelled the ferocious rumbling in his stomach quite nicely. After a few more bites, the warm, starchy raclette started to make Adam feel pleasantly drowsy - drowsy and _thirsty_. Suddenly, he _did_ want that beer - but where was Camille?

He looked around and spotted her just coming in from outdoors, wrapped in a cloak and carrying an armful of firewood. He beckoned to her, and she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She turned back to look at him, eyes wide. _Me?_ she mouthed. Adam nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and waved her over again. A look of slight puzzlement crossed her face, but she deposited the kindling next to the fireplace, wiped her hands on her cloak, and approached his table.

"Do you ... need something?" she asked uncertainly.

_She sure isn't batting her eyes at me _now, Adam thought wryly. "Where is my beer?" he asked.

"Your beer?" She frowned, and Adam thought she looked noticeably more tired than she had only a few minutes ago.

"The beer I asked you for earlier?" Adam reminded her.

Her frown deepened, as if she were searching her memory for some trace of this request. "You did?" Adam nodded.

She shrugged, finally seeming to give up on her attempt to remember their earlier exchange. "I'll be right back."

She reappeared almost impossibly fast, this time with three large steins of beer in hand and the sunny disposition firmly back in place. "Here you are," she announced cheerfully, if somewhat breathlessly. Thick foam slopped over the rim of the mug that she set down in front of him and dribbled onto the table. "I'm sorry I didn't bring this sooner; I had to find someone to help me tap a new cask. I see you like the raclette," she added with a wink, gesturing to his half-empty plate.

No sooner had she disappeared to deliver the other beers, than she appeared at his table again, and set a second stein in front of him. She blinked slowly as her eyes landed on the first mug. "When ...?" she trailed off.

"You just brought this!" Adam groaned.

"I did?" she asked.

"How can you not remember?" Adam realized he wasn't dealing with a scholar, but could she really be _that_ empty-headed? "You were _just_ here! You were standing right there," Adam pointed to a spot on the floor, to his left, "and you ... and you ..." He suddenly faltered. "And you were wearing a red dress. But now ..." His head was starting to ache. She _had_ been wearing a red dress just a moment ago, he was sure of it. But now her dress was green. What was going on?

For the first time that evening, comprehension seemed to dawn in her eyes, and she smiled at him. "_I_ think I know what happened. Is _that_ the woman who brought you your beer?" She pointed across the room, to a pretty blonde wiping down a table. She was a duplicate of the woman standing before him, except that she was wearing a red dress rather than a green one.

Adam's jaw fell. "You're twins?"

"Triplets, actually. I'm Catherine. That, over there, is Camille. Our sister Clothilde would normally be here too, but she's home taking care of our mother, which is why we're a bit short-handed tonight."

"There are _three_ of you?" Adam muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You look tired," Catherine observed, her brow furrowing in concern. "Maybe you should get some rest."

Adam actually laughed. That was the smartest thing he had heard all night. He finished the rest of his raclette, and both of the beers - there was no sense in wasting good alcohol - before dragging himself up the stairs to his tiny guest room. The mattress of the snug little cot was much lumpier than the one on his roomy bed at home, and the blankets weren't nearly as soft as the ones to which he was accustomed. And yet, within minutes, the exhaustion of his day overtook him, and he fell fast asleep.

* * *

_Thank you to TrudiRose for beta-ing this chapter!_


	5. Chapter 5

Belle gazed out the window as she briskly whisked some eggs in a bowl. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, and there was something eerily beautiful about the way the early light illuminated the faint mist that rose up from the fields. She could scarcely make out the rooftops of Molyneaux, which faded almost completely into the morning twilight. It was easy, in that moment, to imagine that she was somewhere else, rather than standing in the kitchen of her cottage looking out over the same town in which she had awakened for the past three years.

She sighed and set the bowl on the counter. Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps his latest invention would be their ticket out of this simple, small-minded village. It was certainly a clever little contraption: a machine that could chop and stack a cord of firewood in less time than it took most people to split just a handful of logs. And it _worked_. The small mountain of kindling now sitting in the cellar was a testament to that. Her father had been so giddy when the initial tests of his machine had succeeded that he had cut enough wood to last them through at least two winters. _Though if all goes well at the fair_, she thought, _we won't be here long enough to use it all_.

As she bent to search the cupboards for a skillet, the floorboards above her head creaked loudly.Speaking of her father, it seemed that he was finally awake and starting to stir. She hurriedly poured the eggs into the pan as his footsteps sounded on the short flight of stairs.

"What's all this?" Maurice asked with a bewildered smile when he reached the bottom of the staircase. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Surprise, Papa!" Belle announced, turning away from the stove to face her father. "I wanted to see you off, and to surprise you with a celebratory breakfast before you leave."

"What are we celebrating?"

"Winning first prize at the fair, of course!"

Maurice chuckled. "You're not afraid this will jinx it?" he asked, licking his lips as he selected a baguette from the tray on the table.

"Oh, _Papa_. You know there's no such thing as jinxes." Belle shook her head in amusement. "Besides, your invention is brilliant, and the judges are sure to see that. The competition doesn't stand a chance."

"Well, I certainly hope the judges share your opinion."

"They will," Belle vowed confidently. "When this fair is over, people will be lining up all over France - _no_, all over _Europe_ \- to get their hands on your machine. You'll be world famous."

"You really believe that?"

Belle smiled warmly as she took the seat across from him. "Of course I do. I always have."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Maurice exclaimed, practically jumping from his chair. "Let's get this show on the road!"

"Slow down, Papa!" Belle laughed, reaching out a hand to grab his sleeve. "Even world famous inventors need to eat breakfast." She pushed the plate of eggs across the table and gave him a meaningful look. "Besides, the sun isn't even up yet, and you know you hate to travel in the dark."

"I suppose you're right," Maurice conceded with a sheepish grin, sinking back into his seat. "It is a bit early, isn't it? I just couldn't sleep anymore!" He began heaping eggs onto his plate. "But there's no sense in setting out on an empty stomach, especially not when breakfast smells so good. The fair can wait a few minutes longer."

After their meal, Belle helped her father load the wood-chopping machine onto their old cart. "Toss me the end of that rope there, will you?" Maurice asked from the bed of the cart. Belle watched as he looped the rope around the machine, raising her forearm to shield her eyes from the sun that was now shining brightly in the cloudless sky.

"It looks like you should have good weather for your trip," she observed.

"I hope so," Maurice muttered as he knotted the rope tightly. "I'd hate for anything to happen to this hunk of junk." He released the rope and patted his invention fondly, as if it were a beloved child rather than a funny-looking patchwork of inanimate parts.

Belle hitched their horse to the front of the cart while her father finished securing the machine. "Take care of him, Philippe," she whispered to the animal, stroking his muzzle gently. She placed a small sack containing some snacks for her father and Philippe onto the little bench that formed the seat of the cart.

Maurice climbed over the cart bed. His legs wiggled wildly for a moment as he balanced precariously on the back of the bench, and then fell clumsily into the seat. "Oof! Will you be all right on your own for two weeks?" he asked, looking down at Belle with concern as he righted himself and adjusted his hat. Belle bit her lip to suppress a laugh. She was twenty years old, and used to being on her own for long stretches of time while her father was off pursuing his inventions; there was no reason to think that she couldn't fend for herself this time around. And truthfully, a part of her was actually looking forward to a few days of peace and quiet. She loved her father, and she would miss him dearly while he was gone, but it would also nice to be able to catch up on her reading without being interrupted by random explosions from his workshop.

"I'll be fine," she assured him, reaching up to squeeze his hand. "Don't worry about me; you just worry about bringing home that blue ribbon!"

* * *

Adam was jerked awake by the sound of someone thumping loudly on the door. "Last call for breakfast!" Lefou's voice shouted from the hallway.

_What?_ Adam thought, blinking sleepily. Surely, he couldn't have been asleep for that long; he had barely closed his eyes! He sat up and rummaged frantically through his satchel, finally giving up and dumping its contents onto the nightstand when he failed to find what he was searching for. He caught his mother's ring just before it rolled over the edge and placed it safely on the tabletop, and that's when he finally spotted it - his pocket watch, peeking out from underneath the small pile of his belongings. He flipped the case open to check the time and received another unpleasant surprise. "_Merde!_" he exclaimed, tossing the timepiece back onto the pile and scrambling out of the little bed. He had slept far later than he had intended.

He raked a hand unconsciously through his hair as he debated whether to skip breakfast and head directly for the road. He was already behind schedule, and staying for breakfast would only delay him even further. But then his stomach grumbled loudly, almost as if it could sense his thoughts, and he wavered. He had another long day of traveling ahead of him, and it would probably be nightfall before he would be able to stop for a decent meal. Grudgingly, he conceded that it would be better to eat while he could, as long as he did so quickly. He hurriedly pulled on a pair of breeches and a shirt, jammed his feet into his boots, and tugged the door to his room behind him as he dashed into the hallway.

He strode quickly down the hall, but stopped abruptly when he reached the top of the stairs. Two burly figures were making their way up the dimly lit stairwell, and as their faces came into focus, he felt his stomach lurch for reasons that had nothing to do with hunger: it was the sinister-looking duo he had noticed in the tavern the night before. Up close, he saw that the two were almost identical - definitely brothers, if not twins. Adam swallowed hard, but held his head high as he descended, not wanting to let on to the pair just how unnerved he was by their presence. The one with the eye patch nodded mutely as they passed each other. "Morning," the other growled. Adam mumbled something back, fighting hard against the urge to sprint down the remaining steps.

The tavern was nearly empty by the time he reached the first floor; most of the morning customers had already come and gone. Only a few stragglers remained, polishing off the dregs of their meals before they left to begin the day's work. Gaston sat alone at a table near the door, cleaning the muzzle of a blunderbuss that lay across his lap. A lumpy burlap sack sat at his feet, spilling loose feathers onto the floor.

"Wow," Lefou snickered, appearing, seemingly out of nowhere, at Adam's side. "We've never had a customer sleep through breakfast before."

Adam bristled at his teasing tone. "I thought you said it was still last call?"

"It is."

"Then I didn't sleep through breakfast."

"Well ... no." Lefou frowned. "It was just a joke."

"I'm not in the mood for jokes," Adam snapped.

"_Whoa_, touchy," Lefou replied, holding up his hands and taking a step backward. He eyed Adam with a mix of wariness and curiosity, as if he were trying size up an ill-tempered wild animal. Adam scowled back at him, and several seconds of silence passed between them. "...So did you still want breakfast?"

"_Today_, if possible," Adam replied testily.

"Okay, okay, I'll see what I can find." Lefou gave him one last leery look before retreating into the kitchen, and Adam took a seat at an empty table as he tried not to think about how much time he was wasting.

A few minutes later, a bowl of porridge and a baguette were placed on his table. "You must be Étienne."

Adam was struck by a feeling of déjà vu as he looked up and found himself staring directly into a pair of wide-set green eyes. "And you must be..." - his eyes flickered to the woman's yellow dress - "Clothilde?"

Her entire face lit up with delight. "Oh, did my sisters tell you about me?" She pulled up a chair and sat down across from him, scooting in close to the table. "What else did they say about me?" she asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"Um ..." Adam trailed off, momentarily caught off guard by the question and by the ease with which she had just insinuated herself into his company when all he had been hoping for was a quick, quiet meal. "That ... you were taking care of your mother last night?"

She sat back in her seat, crossing her arms as her brow creased in disappointment. "Huh. Did they say anything else?" Adam hesitated, then shook his head. Her face fell. "Oh." Then she brightened again. "Well they told me all about _you. _You're even cuter than they said," she observed with a wink.

"Um, thank you?" Adam ripped the end off of the baguette and stuffed it into his mouth, hoping that that would put an end to the conversation. All he wanted to do was finish his breakfast and get out of there. But unfortunately, subtlety was about as lost on Clothilde as it was on her sisters.

"Will you be leaving after breakfast?" she asked, gesturing to his untouched bowl of porridge. "Camille said you were on your way to see family."

Adam chewed awkwardly around a large mouthful of bread. He could feel his face warming self-consciously as she watched him eat. "_Yes_," he finally choked out. "And I'm actually in a bit of a hurry, so -"

"She'll be so jealous that I got to see you off and she didn't," Clothilde boasted gleefully, cutting him off before he could ask her to take a hike. "_You know, I think she has a thing for you_," she confided in whisper that Adam swore could be heard across the town.

_Merveilleux_, he thought, forcing a smile as Clothilde prattled on, completely unaware of the fact that he was now tuning her out. It occurred to him that he hadn't given his name - real _or_ assumed - to anyone but Gaston. And since Clothilde had addressed him by name, that meant that Gaston must have discussed him with one or both of Clothilde's sisters. And _they_ had obviously discussed him with Clothilde. Despite his plans to remain inconspicuous and unmemorable, he now appeared to have amassed a small fan club. Didn't the people of this town have anything more interesting to do than gossip about strangers?

He glanced back up at Clothilde and realized that she had suddenly stopped speaking, and was looking at something behind him. He turned in his seat and saw a middle-aged woman hauling a large, heavy-looking basket through the front door of the tavern. The woman was flustered and out of breath, as if she had just run a long distance.

"Oh, Gaston, I'm so sorry," she apologized in a trembling voice. "I know that I'm a bit late with these."

Gaston looked up from his gun with a forgiving smile. "Don't worry, about it, Hélène. I only just came in a few minutes ago."

Her face softened a little, although it seemed clear from her expression that her apparent tardiness wasn't the only thing that was bothering her. "Well, thank you. But ... I'm afraid I still have some bad news: I'm a few eggs short this morning. You see, a pack of wolves got into my coop last night."

"Oh, no, Hélène. Not _again_." Clothilde got up and rushed to the woman's side, pulling out a chair and gesturing for her to sit.

The woman nodded as she sat. "I think it's the same ones - between this time and the last, they've gotten nearly half of my hens."

"That makes ..." Gaston trailed off as he counted laboriously on his fingers. "Three attacks in the last month."

"_Four_, if you count the sheep that disappeared from M. Agneau's paddock last week," the woman corrected him. "We don't know for certain that it was wolves, but what else could it have been? They're a menace. I just don't know what I'll do if they show up again," she fretted. "I can't afford to lose any more birds."

"You _won't_, because the next time they show up, I'll be ready for them." Gaston's eyes flashed with determination, and his jaw clenched. "No mangy beasts are going to get the best of _my_ village. I'm saving a special place on my wall for their filthy heads. And in the meantime, I'll come by after breakfast and see what we can do to keep them from getting into your coop again."

Adam listened to the exchange with interest. It wasn't that he cared so much about some farmers' pest problem, but if there were wolves prowling around the area, he certainly didn't want to run into them while he was traveling alone. He would be sure to keep an eye out for them while he was on the road, and to head indoors before it got too dark tonight. Étienne could outrun just about any creature in existence, but there was no sense in taking needless risks.

He turned his attention back to his meal, dipping his spoon into porridge that would surely be cold by now. It also turned out to be very runny, and it trickled sloppily over the edge of the spoon as he brought it to his lips. At this rate, it would take him forever to finish his meal, he thought with a glimmer of frustration. He glanced surreptitiously around the dining area and saw that all of the other patrons had disappeared while he was busy being pestered by Clothilde. She was now several tables away, deep in discussion with Gaston, Lefou, and Hélène, and none of them were paying the slightest attention to him, for once. Satisfied, he lifted the bowl with both hands and did something that he knew would have earned him a stern rebuke from his father: he drank his porridge straight from the bowl in several large gulps, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, while the others were busy sorting out what to do about their wolf infestation, he got up from the table and slipped quietly out of the dining area.

Adam climbed the stairs quickly and was grateful to find that the second floor hallway was empty and silent. He would collect his things, settle his account with Gaston, and finally put this town behind him. But as he reached toward his doorknob, he frowned. The door was cracked open the tiniest bit, but he had shut it tightly behind him before heading downstairs for breakfast - hadn't he? He paused for several moments, hand still outstretched, trying to quiet his own breathing as he listened carefully for any sound that might indicate that someone was in his room. When none came, he gripped the doorknob, and, heart pounding, threw the door wide open. The door bounced loudly off of the wall as his eyes darted back and forth, rapidly searching the room. However, it soon became apparent that the room was empty - that was, _completely_ empty. Not only were the intruders gone, but so were all of Adam's possessions. If not for the unmade bed, it would almost appear as if the room had been unoccupied.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. He stepped back into the hallway and counted the doors, hoping that he had simply entered the wrong room. He hadn't. "_C'est _impossible_!_" He rushed into the room. It took him less than a minute to look under the bed, on the floor, in the drawer of the nightstand - to check every conceivable location in which he might have misplaced his things. They weren't there. His map, his money, his pocket watch, his mother's ring - it was all gone. How was this possible? And then, suddenly, his memory flashed to the men he had passed in the stairway earlier that morning. It had to have been them - they had robbed him!

Adam raced back down the stairs. He landed on the first floor with a thud that shook the walls. He scanned the tavern frantically for the thieves, but the only people he saw were Gaston, Clothilde, and Hélène, who looked up from their conversation with shock. "Watch it, pal!" Gaston growled. "You nearly knocked my trophies down!"

But Adam didn't bother apologizing; he had bigger things to worry about than some damaged antlers. "The two men staying here," he panted. "The big guys - which room is theirs?"

Gaston frowned. "They _were_ staying in the room at the end of the hall. But they left a little while ago. _Hey_ \- where are you going?" he shouted, as Adam rushed out the door and into the square.

* * *

_Merci beaucoup to TrudiRose for beta-ing this chapter, and thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! I hope you continue to enjoy the story. :)_


	6. Chapter 6

"Bonjour!"

"Bonjour!"

"Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!"

The village literally hummed with activity, but Belle moved through the busy streets with ease, gracefully weaving her way in and out of the crowd without so much as a single misstep. What made this feat even more impressive was the fact that she didn't need to see where she was going; her eyes never strayed from the pages of the book that was clutched tightly in her hands. To Belle, however, this wasn't impressive at all. It was simply second nature. She knew, for instance, that the green grocer would stop his cart outside the bakery each morning, just as the baker was taking a fresh batch of breakfast rolls from the oven. She knew this just as surely as she knew that Mme. Séverin would soon come bursting out of her house, three wriggling infants in tow, and make a beeline for the poulterer's stand. It hadn't taken Belle long to memorize the daily routines of the village; every morning was _just_ the same as the morning before it.

Her eyes remained glued to the page as she raised one hand to lift the sign hanging over the entrance to the pipe shop, deftly deflecting a stream of water that Mme. Tabac had just poured from her second-story window. She skipped lightly over the jump rope that a group of village children was playing with, barely slowing her pace to give little Madeline Terrot an affectionate pat on the head.

She consciously quickened her steps as she neared the tavern, silently praying that Gaston wouldn't choose that moment to come barging into the square. He was constantly trying to coax her into the tavern with promises of showing off his hunting trophies. As if _that_ would somehow impress her. She could imagine few things more utterly mind-numbing than being forced to sit through some rhapsodic account of Gaston's greatest exploits. Not to mention, she frankly found the idea of all of those animal carcasses gazing down at her with their dull, lifeless eyes to be a little creepy. _Although they'd probably be better company than Gaston_, she mused.

Down the street, the baker called out to his wife for some more baguettes, and a man haggled loudly with a merchant over the price of some fish. She stepped nimbly to the side as a few sheep trotted past, followed moments later by their breathless shepherd. It was a morning just the same as every other ...

...until Belle was hit head-on by something large and very fast-moving. The force of the impact sent her sprawling to the ground, and she watched in dismay as the book tumbled from her grasp to land in a puddle of mud. An unfamiliar voice swore loudly, and Belle looked up to see a man she didn't recognize scrambling to his feet. She waited for him to apologize and offer her a hand to help her up, but instead he barked down at her, "Which way did they go?"

"Which way did _who_ go?" Belle asked in annoyance, wiping the hopelessly soiled book on her apron as she got to her feet. It was only when she had cleaned off as much of the mud as she could that she took a good look at the man - and suddenly she understood why she had gone flying. The stranger standing before her was tall and broad-shouldered - not quite as brawny as Gaston, but still solidly built. And considering the haste with which he was moving - or with which he _had_ been moving until they had collided - it was a wonder that she hadn't been hurt. "And I'm fine, by the way," she added with a roll of her eyes. "Thank you for the concern."

"The _thieves_!" he exclaimed, ignoring her veiled reprimand. He grabbed her shoulders and forcibly moved her to the side, looking past her as if she were nothing more than a pesky obstacle in his path. "Where did they go?"

"Hey!" Belle protested. She wrestled herself free from his grasp. "I didn't see any thieves!"

The man wheeled angrily on her, and the sheer desperation in his deep blue eyes caused her to take a step back. "Well maybe if your nose hadn't been buried in your damned book, you _would_ have!"

Belle crossed her arms and shot the man a withering look. "I would have noticed if I had passed any criminals running amok through the village. Some people _are_ capable of doing more than one thing at a time, you know."

"Well there's only _one_ thing that I need you to do right now," he snarled. "And that's _get out of my way_! I would have had them if you hadn't walked right into me!"

"_Excuse me_?" Belle's hands flew to her hips. "_You're_ the one who bumped into _me_! And like I said, I didn't _see_ any thieves! All I_ do_ see is a rude person who goes around manhandling strangers and forgetting basic manners."

He scoffed. "I hardly need lessons on manners from _you_."

"Well you need them from _someone_, seeing as how you have yet to apologize to me."

The man's mouth fell open. "_A-apologize_? What on earth do you expect me to apologize for?"

"Well let me think. For starters, you knocked me down, and then you had the nerve to _yell_ at me -"

"You were in my way!"

"- not to mention, my book is completely _ruined_ -"

"Of _course_ this is about a book," a third voice mumbled knowingly.

Belle turned to her side, and she was surprised to see that she and the stranger had started to attract an audience. He seemed to notice this as well, because some of the bluster suddenly seemed to drain out of him, and his hardened expression grew visibly uneasy as he glanced at the crowd. And then his nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed, and he turned abruptly back to Belle.

"You want an apology?" he hissed, leaning in closely so that only she could hear. "Well all right, here it is: I'm sorry that you don't have enough sense to watch where you're going - like any _normal_ person would! I'm sorry that your life is so empty that you have nothing better to worry about than some stupid book! And most of all, I'm sorry that I ever set foot in this _putain_ village!"

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back into the tavern, leaving Belle standing, stunned, amid the small sea of onlookers. "What do you suppose _that_ was all about?" Belle heard one of them whisper loudly.

"I don't know," another responded in hushed tones. "But you know how ... _funny_ ... she can be. It was only a matter of time until it got her into trouble." This observation elicited a general murmur of agreement from the other bystanders.

Belle tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, noticing as she did that her hand was trembling slightly. She retrieved her basket from the ground, and then, jutting her chin stubbornly, she calmly continued on her way before she could overhear any more of the villagers' idle speculation. But once she had rounded the fountain and escaped the view of the crowd, her eyes dropped to the ground, and her pace quickened.

_"...like any _normal_ person would do ..._" The words rang over and over in her ears as she hurried through the street. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but they had hit a nerve. She had always been aware that the other villagers found her odd, but it had never really bothered her because she had never put much stock in their opinions. After all, these were the same people who put boorish, brainless _Gaston_ on a pedestal. But this man was an outsider, a stranger. And if even _he_ saw what the others did, then did that mean that they had been right all along? Had she been wrong to ignore the funny looks and furtive whispers that seemed to follow her wherever she went? She wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer.

She breathed a tiny sigh of relief when she finally reached the bookshop. At least here, she knew, there would be no one gossiping about her behind her back - if only because no one else in the village ever bothered to set foot in the shop.

M. Marchand was rearranging some books on a shelf near the floor, but he looked up as the little bell over the door jingled to announce Belle's entrance. "Ah, Belle!" he exclaimed. He smiled warmly, and Belle heard a loud pop as he cautiously uncurled from his stooped position.

"Good morning," she responded, holding out a hand to help him to his feet.

Her greeting was noticeably glum, and M. Marchand tilted his head curiously. "Is it?" he asked, releasing her hand to push his glasses further up on his long nose. "You don't sound so certain."

Belle bit her lip. M. Marchand's genuine concern soothed some of the misgivings she had been struggling with on her way to his shop. At least there was _one_ person in this town, other than her father, who didn't write her off as peculiar. In a way, though, that made her feel even worse about the fact that she was about to disappoint him. "I'm not. I don't know how to tell you this."

"Why don't you start at the beginning," he suggested.

Belle took a deep breath, and the story came pouring out in a rush of words. "I ruined your book! Well, to be fair, it wasn't _entirely _my fault. You see, I was on my way to return it to you when a man knocked me over in the street. I lost my grip on it, and it fell into the mud. I tried to wipe off as much of the mud as I could, but ..." She pulled the book from her basket, wincing at the sight of the damage. "I'm afraid this is as clean as it's going to get. I'm _so_ sorry. You were nice enough to lend your book to me, and I let _this_ happen to it. But I promise I'll pay to have it replaced as soon as I can."

"Oh, now, there's no need for that. It sounds like it was just an accident. Besides," Mr. Marchand added wryly, "I doubt anyone else is going to come in here looking for this."

"No, I _insist_," Belle argued. "Accident or not, it was _my_ responsibility to take care of your book. And if something happened to it while it was in my care, then it should be my responsibility to make it right."

M. Marchand sighed wearily, but he managed a little smile. "I still say it isn't necessary, but if it makes you feel better, then who am I to argue?" Belle smiled back, and he patted her hand lightly. "Now, not to change the subject on you, but I am glad you stopped by today. I wanted to show you a new book that came in this week. I think you'll like it. Now if I could only remember where I put it ..." he mumbled to himself as he poked through the shelves next to the counter.

Belle exhaled slowly, glad to have that unpleasant bit of news out of the way. But privately, she wondered how she was going to fulfill the promise she had made to M. Marchand. It wasn't as if she and her father had a surplus of extra cash lying around the cottage. And even if they did, this was _her_ debt - she didn't expect her father to repay it for her. Which left her with the question of how she was going to raise enough money to replace M. Marchand's book?

* * *

Adam was reeling. How had everything gone to hell so quickly? He had awoken that morning with enough money and supplies to see him comfortably to Prussia. And now here he stood, literally empty-handed and still several days away from his destination. In a matter of mere minutes, he had lost his money, his personal belongings, his shot at freedom - _everything_. The thieves had even taken his satchel and spare clothing! And that girl in the square had the nerve to demand an apology for getting some dirt on her stupid _book_?

He marched back to the tavern and pushed the door open forcefully. "Ah, there he is!" Gaston announced from the table near the door. "You see, Lefou, I _told_ you he wasn't going to run off without paying!" He smiled smugly to himself.

Adam advanced on him. "Were you in on it?" he demanded angrily, slamming the palms of his hands down on the tabletop.

Gaston's smile faded into a blank look. "In on ... _it_?"

"Were you in cahoots with those thieves?"

Gaston's brow furrowed in thought. "Is that near Villedômer?" he finally asked.

"_What_?"

"Cahoots. It's near Villedômer, right?"

"No, no." Lefou shook his head adamantly. "I think it's near Saint-Avertin. I have an uncle who used to be a tanner there."

Gaston snorted with laughter. "Isn't he the one we used to call 'LePew?'"

"That's him!" Lefou cackled, and both men dissolved into fits of hysterics.

Adam rubbed his hands over his face. _No_, he realized, peering at Gaston and Lefou through his fingers. _There's no way that these two are smart enough to have been involved_. Unless their stupidity was an elaborate act - and he somehow doubted that - the men who had run off with his things had acted without inside help.

Gaston sat back and wiped tears from his eyes with the palms of his hands. Then he cleared his throat and looked up at Adam curiously. "Why do you want to know about Lefou's uncle?"

"I _don't_ want to know about his uncle," Adam groaned. "I want to know about the men who robbed me."

"You were robbed?" Hélène clucked sympathetically.

Gaston frowned. "Why would we know anything about them?"

"_Because_," Adam replied, "they were staying here. The two big red-haired men - they broke into my room and took my things while I was eating breakfast."

There was a collective gasp from the table.

"Criminals - here - in the tavern?" Clothilde placed a hand weakly over her heart.

"You were robbed _here_?" Gaston bolted up from his chair. "No one goes around stealing from customers under _my _roof!" He started purposefully toward the door, but Adam shot out an arm to stop him.

"Don't bother," he sighed. "They're long gone." Gaston looked toward the door again, as if not quite convinced of the veracity of this claim. But Adam put a hand firmly on his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. "There's no point. There's no sign of them. No one saw them leave. I don't even know which way they went." A thought suddenly occurred to him then. "Do you keep a guestbook?" he asked hopefully. But his hopes were immediately dashed when Gaston shook his head. "Well, did they say who they were, or where they were going?"

"Not to me." Gaston glanced over at Clothilde and Lefou.

Clothilde shook her head. "Not to me either. But I avoided their table as much as I could. I was glad when they left." She shuddered, and then she looked up at Adam apologetically. "I'm sorry I can't help. But maybe they said something to my sisters. I can ask them tonight. Oh - but you'll be gone by then, won't you?"

"Oh." Adam blinked. He had gotten so caught up in trying to track down the men who had crossed him that he had actually forgotten that he was supposed to be on the road by now. "Right."

Gaston slapped him on the back, and he stumbled forward, barely managing to steady himself on a chair before he crashed into the table. "Well, I hope there are no hard feelings, Étienne. Rest assured that if those crooks ever show their faces in this village again, I'll make them pay for what they did to you."

His choice of words stirred something in Adam's thoughts. "Speaking of paying ...," he began slowly. Four pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly. "I'm obviously not going to be able to pay you for the room."

Lefou shot Gaston a knowing look, as if to say, "I told you so."

Gaston frowned. "What do you mean, you can't pay?"

"Those men took everything I had. All of my money, all of my things - you're looking at everything they left me with."

"But you can't just _not_ pay," Lefou protested. "We gave you a room, and meals. I took care of your horse."

"Well it isn't as if I _planned_ to weasel out of my account!" Adam exclaimed in exasperation. "But I didn't plan to get robbed either! What do you expect me to do?"

"I'd be willing to take your horse in a trade," Gaston suggested.

"I'm _not_ giving you my horse!" Adam objected.

Gaston crossed his arms. "Well, then what do you suggest?"

Adam's mind raced. "I have money - just not _with_ me. But when I get to where I'm going, I can send payment. In fact, I'll _double_ what I owe you."

Gaston seemed intrigued by this offer, but Lefou shook his head doubtfully. "I dunno, Gaston. Are you sure we can trust him? There's been a lot of shady stuff going on in here today."

"You have a point," Gaston murmured, much to Adam's disbelief.

"Oh - I think I have an idea!" Clothilde interjected, jumping suddenly to her feet. She tugged on Gaston's sleeve and whispered something in his ear as he leaned over.

One thick eyebrow rose skeptically, but then as Clothilde went on, the brow began to lower, and Gaston started nodding slowly. Then he straightened and gave Adam a long, appraising look. Finally, he gave one last nod of the head, seemingly coming to a decision. "Work for me," he said simply.

Adam's jaw fell for the second time that morning. _Work_? Surely, he had misheard Gaston. "_What_ did you say?"

"You can pay off your debt by working for me," Gaston clarified. "Here, in the tavern. I could use the extra help. The girls have been taking turns staying home with their mother since she got sick, so I've been shorthanded."

"You want me to serve people in your tavern?" Adam asked incredulously. Clothilde clapped her hands and nodded in excitement.

"And help me out with odd jobs around the town. I'll pay you - at a reduced rate, of course," Gaston went on. "You can even keep your room upstairs. So what do you say?"

Adam was too stunned to respond immediately. "I need to think about it," he muttered, more to buy himself time than to _actually_ think about the offer.

Gaston grimaced. "If you _have_ to."

Adam turned and walked out into the square. He needed some air. The crowd that had gathered only a few minutes earlier had thankfully dispersed, and the area in front of the tavern was mostly empty now. He looked around, and his eyes fell on the little building next door.

The stench of manure threatened to overwhelm him as he cautiously opened the door to the stables. He raised a hand to cover his mouth and nose, but found that it did little to help. The smell didn't seem to be bothering Étienne though - Adam found his horse in the second corral, munching contently on a half-eaten bucket of oats.

He reached out to stroke Étienne's muzzle as he considered his predicament. Did Gaston really expect him to _serve_ a bunch of peasants? Imagine _him_, a blood prince, nephew of the _king_, mopping up floors and fetching ale for some lowly commoners! Of course, Gaston had no idea who Adam really was, but the idea was insulting nevertheless. Not to mention, Adam didn't know the first thing about this job - or _any_ job for that matter. There was just no way it could work.

He looked over at Étienne's saddle hanging on the wall, and suddenly he felt a little flicker of hope. What was to stop him from just getting on his horse and riding out of the village? It would take Gaston and his friends at least a few minutes to realize what he had done, and by the time they were saddled up and in pursuit, he'd be long gone; there was no way they'd be able to keep up with a horse of Étienne's breeding.

But even as he fantasized about making his getaway, the rational side of his brain yanked him back to reality. Sure, he could probably escape cleanly, but then what? He was still more than a week away from reaching Charles's castle, and he was still completely broke. He had no money, no food, and nothing of value that he could exchange for either - literally nothing except for his horse and the clothes on his back. He knew that there were men who were capable of surviving in the wilderness, but he also knew that he was not one of them.

There was, of course, a third option. But Adam wasn't particularly eager to dwell on _that_. It involved slinking back to his father and begging for his forgiveness. But if Adam had thought that life under his father's rules had been unbearable before, that was nothing compared to what he would be likely to face if he went back _now_. His father was not a man who took embarrassment well, and the scuttled wedding had no doubt been _highly_ embarrassing to him. Adam knew he would be in a position even worse than the one in which he started if he just gave up and returned home now.

And that was when he came to the uncomfortable and inevitable conclusion that he had no choice. He _needed_ Gaston, or at least he needed the job and the cover that Gaston was offering. It didn't mean he would be stuck here forever; he could work for Gaston for just long enough to build up some savings, enough to get him to Prussia. He'd keep his head down, avoid making waves, and in a few weeks he could be on his way again.

With a reluctant sigh, he gave Étienne one final pat on the head and then walked back into the tavern. "All right," he said, holding out a hand to Gaston so that they could shake on it. "I'll do it."

* * *

_Muchas gracias to beta-extraordinaire TrudiRose._


	7. Chapter 7

Adam's reluctant foray into working life began relatively uneventfully, at least when compared to the events that precipitated it. After grudgingly accepting Gaston's offer of employment, he had spent the next thirty minutes sitting alone at a table near the fireplace. He stared morosely into the flames, barely aware of his surroundings, as he struggled to understand how he had arrived at this humiliating low point in his life. He leaned away from the table as Clothilde reached in to wipe a damp rag across its surface. She shot him a smile that he supposed was meant to be sympathetic, but the gesture only fueled his feelings of anger and bitterness. He didn't want pity from some barmaid, he wanted his life back! If only Clothilde hadn't distracted him with her endless, inane chatter over breakfast. If only even _one_ of the people who had stopped to uselessly gawk at him in the square had actually seen which way the thieves had gone. If only -

His inner tirade was interrupted by a loud, long belch. This was followed by the sound of cheap flatware clattering onto an empty plate. "Okay," Gaston announced, thumping his sternum with one fist as he rose from a nearby table. "You're in charge, Étienne."

It took Adam a moment to realize that Gaston was talking to _him_. "Oh," he mumbled, shaking himself from his self-pitying stupor. "What?"

"You're in charge," Gaston repeated. "But don't go redecorating the place on me!" he added with a sly wink. "It's only until I get back."

_Wait_, what? Adam bolted up in his seat, suddenly fully alert. "What do you mean, I'm in charge? Where are _you_ going?"

"To fix Hélène's chicken coop before those wolves make off with any more of her hens. If she loses any more birds, I'm going have to cut my breakfasts down to _four_ dozen eggs." Gaston grimaced as if the mere thought of having to resort to such drastic measures caused him physical pain. But Adam could muster little sympathy for his boss's dietary dilemma. _Sure_, he had agreed to be Gaston's hired hand, but he hadn't expected Gaston to _actually_ hold him to his end of the bargain so soon - he had just experienced a profoundly life-altering ordeal! If Gaston thought he was going to put Adam to work _already_, well, he would just have to think again.

Adam scowled and slumped back against his chair. "Get _him_ to do it," he muttered, jerking a thumb at Lefou.

"Can't." Gaston shook his head. "He's coming with me."

"Then what about her?" Adam shot back, inclining his head toward Clothilde.

Gaston stared at him for several seconds, his mouth slightly agape. Then he burst into laughter. He doubled over and clutched his side as his enormous frame shook with mirth, and now Adam was the one left feeling bewildered. What had he said that was so funny? Clothilde was far from the brightest woman he'd ever met, but she still had to know more about running a tavern than _he_ did. He glanced over at her, and then at Lefou, but neither of them gave any sign that they were perturbed in the slightest by Gaston's outburst.

Outside, the distant peal of a church bell signaled the start of a new hour. The sound seemed to snap Gaston back to his senses. He cleared his throat, shook his head, and grinned at Adam. "Well, I'd love to stay and joke around, but that chicken coop isn't going to fix itself. Just keep an eye on the place until I get back, all right? And if anyone comes looking for me, be sure to tell them that I'm working on some repairs at Hélène's farm. Come on, Lefou."

And with that, Gaston and Lefou disappeared through the door, leaving Adam and Clothilde to their appointed tasks. But for the first time since waking that morning, Adam felt a vague sense of relief. All he had to do was keep an eye on an empty tavern, and pass messages on to Gaston's friends, if any should show up. It didn't get much easier than _that_. He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table. "Hey!" Clothilde exclaimed at this, but her protests fell on deaf ears.

Adam closed his eyes and shifted in his seat to get more comfortable - or at least, as comfortable as the hard wooden chair would allow. It was about damn time that _something _went his way that morning, he thought. Alone in the empty tavern, he was free to do anything that he wanted. Well ... anything except for the one thing he _really_ wanted to do, which was leave. His shoulders sagged dejectedly as his eyes blinked open. A moose head stared back at him from the wall with its dead eyes, like a doll's eyes, and he shuddered. His head might not have been mounted to the wall, but he felt a strange sense of kinship with the animal, who had probably also not anticipated spending its days as a prisoner in this pathetic watering hole.

If he couldn't leave, then what _was_ he going to do in here for the next several hours, or however long it took to fix a chicken coop? Adam leaned his head against the back of the chair and gazed vacantly at the ceiling as he waited for inspiration to strike him. And waited. And waited. Eventually, one of his legs started to tingle uncomfortably. With a sigh, he swung his feet off of the table and gave his leg a shake. How long had he been sitting there, he wondered? Out of habit, he reached into his pocket for his pocket watch, but his fingers came up with nothing but a few pieces of lint. He swore under his breath and kicked at the table, which only resulted in sore toes and another round of swearing.

Frustrated, he slumped forward and dropped his head onto his forearms. His fingers drummed restlessly against the table, and he watched them rise and fall against the wood with weary detachment. As he stared at the tabletop, he began to imagine that he saw images in the knots and whorls of the wood grain. Here was an owl, with its large eyes peering out from a round face. There was a lopsided heart. And just to the right of center was something that resembled the profile of a strange lion/boar hybrid. The line of a thick brow stretched above a small eye, and Adam's finger traced the curve of a horn rising up from its shaggy mane of fur.

His reverie was cut abruptly short by the sound of footsteps. His head snapped toward the door, and he was startled for a moment to realize that he had been half-hoping that the footsteps belonged to a customer. But it was only Clothilde, returning from the kitchen with a metal bucket and a large knife. "What's wrong?" she asked, noticing the searching look on his face.

Adam shook his head. "Nothing. I just thought you were someone else."

Clothilde shrugged cheerfully as she took a seat at the table that had been vacated by Gaston. "I get that a lot."

"Is there anything to do around here?" he asked her, fighting to keep his tone casual so that it wouldn't betray how desperately bored he was.

"Oh, sure!" she responded brightly. "You could help me pluck these geese for supper," she offered, gesturing to the lumpy sack that Gaston had left beneath the table.

_Plucking geese_? Adam wrinkled his nose in disdain. That sounded messy, not to mention more than a little disgusting. "Isn't there anything else?" he asked.

"Well ...," Clothilde thought aloud, "I was going to mop the floors once I finished with the geese. But if _you_ want to do that, it would save me some time later." She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled hopefully at him.

Adam snorted in indignation. "Do I_ look_ like a goddamn scullery maid?"

Clothilde's smile faltered, and her eyes went wide with hurt. "I - I wasn't - I don't ..."

"Never mind." Adam waved a hand impatiently. "What does Gaston usually do around here?"

"Sometimes he and Lefou play cards," Clothilde suggested in a small voice.

"There are cards here?" Clothilde nodded back hesitantly. "Where?" She jabbed a finger in the direction of the bar, and then quickly ducked her head.

Adam wandered back to the bar to search for the deck of cards, which he found stashed among several bottles of liquor on a shelf below the counter. He returned to his seat and began to deal the cards out on the table. As he arranged them in an array of unequal stacks, he heard a little sniff from across the room. He sneaked a glance at Clothilde out of the corner of his eye. Her head was down, and her bottom lip stuck out stubbornly as she ripped the feathers from a goose - a bit more forcefully than was necessary, he thought. She seemed to be taking pains to ignore him, and he wondered if she was still smarting over his earlier rebuke. He knew that women were prone to holding senseless grudges - or at least, that's what Lumière had always told him. Adam rolled his eyes. _Get over it_. If anyone had the right to be sore, it was him. His life had just been ruined, and she wanted to sulk over some petty slight? Well she could be his guest.

Although the cards mostly managed to keep Adam's boredom at bay, it was almost a relief when Gaston finally swaggered through the door roughly two hours later and flopped into his armchair. Clothilde jumped instantly from her seat and hurried behind the bar. "Did you fix the chicken coop?" she asked, appearing at Gaston's side moments later with a freshly poured beer.

Gaston downed the entire mug in one long gulp before responding. "Not yet. Lefou is going over to the next town to get some supplies so that we can finish up tomorrow."

"_Mon Dieu_, it sounds like a big job," Clothilde observed as she perched herself on the arm of the chair.

"The wolves did a lot of damage. But after I fix this thing, I'm going to get rid of those beasts once and for all," Gaston vowed.

Clothilde reached over to knead his shoulders. "This village would be lost without you," she cooed.

"It sure would," Gaston agreed, leaning into her hands.

_Oh, please_, Adam thought.

"You should _really_ see him in action, Étienne," Clothilde went on, turning her attention to Adam. "Half of the village usually turns out to watch him work."

Gaston smiled smugly. "Well, I am a sight to behold."

Adam shook his head. Watching Gaston perform manual labor was about the least exciting thing he could imagine, and that was saying something considering the morning he'd had.

Suddenly, Clothilde gasped and patted Gaston excitedly on the shoulder. "I have an idea! Why don't you take Étienne with you tomorrow? He's never had a chance to see you work - and he might even be able to help! I'm sure he would appreciate the chance to get out of this _boring_ tavern and do something useful with his day."

_What_? Adam whipped around to look at her. She smiled innocently at him, but he thought he detected a hint of defiance in her gaze as her eyes met his. _That spiteful little -_

"Say, that's not a bad idea!" Gaston nodded his head enthusiastically. "Do you know anything about building chicken coops, Étienne?" he asked, turning to look at Adam.

"Not really -"

"Then it's settled! You, me, and Lefou will head out first thing after breakfast." He grinned in satisfaction, and then looked back to Clothilde. "Now, how about another beer?"

* * *

Not long after the sun had set, the previously empty tavern found itself packed to the rafters with boisterous, demanding customers, and Adam quickly found himself longing for the morning's quiet. Even the thick earthen walls of the tavern's cellar did little to muffle the sounds of the villagers laughing and singing from the floor above. Adam bristled as the chorus of a particularly ribald little tune drifted down to him. A day earlier, he probably would have laughed at the bawdy song. But the previous day already felt like a lifetime ago, and it didn't take him long to learn that the only thing worse than being forced to work for a living was being forced to work while everyone_ else_ was having a good time. He was starting to think that fate was determined to rub his nose in his misfortune.

"Étienne!" Lefou's nasally voice called from the top of the stairs that led back to the main floor. "Can you hurry up with that beer?"

"I'm trying!" Adam grunted as he attempted to roll a heavy cask across the dirt floor while simultaneously clutching a torch in one hand.

"Well can you try faster?" Lefou entreated. "We're going to run out soon!"

Adam squinted up the dark stairwell as the cask bumped to a stop against the bottom step. "I'm moving as quickly as I can. In case you hadn't noticed, these things weigh a ton!"

"Is that a lot?" Lefou inquired innocently.

"Yes!"

"Well Gaston never has any trouble carrying them," Lefou remarked unhelpfully.

"Well Gaston is welcome to come and get this one himself if he needs it so badly!" Adam replied testily.

"I don't -." Lefou broke off and turned away as a sudden commotion erupted behind him. "_Hey_!" he exclaimed, his squat figure retreating hastily from Adam's sight. "What is that goat doing on the bar?"

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a slow breath. _How the hell do they expect me to lug this thing up there_, he wondered? He looked at the cask for a long moment before setting the torch in a sconce. Then he wrapped his arms around the length of the barrel and gripped the ends. With great effort, he managed to lift the vessel maybe an inch or two off of the ground before it came crashing back down on his toes. His roar of pain was immediately drowned out by another round of inharmonious warbling from upstairs, which only served to add insult to the injury. He glowered up at the ceiling as he hobbled around the cellar in an effort to walk off the pain. _Who cares if we run out of beer?_ he fumed. The customers were already so intoxicated that they probably wouldn't notice if they were being served seawater.

By the time he finally managed to heave the stupid cask over the top of the stairs, his entire body ached as badly as his crushed foot. He took a minute to catch his breath, and then he began the painstaking process of navigating his way through the maze of drunken humanity blocking his path to the bar.

He didn't believe it was possible, but the tavern only seemed to have grown noisier and more crowded in the time that it took him to retrieve the beer. Discordant voices blended together in the din, but as Adam rolled the cask toward the bar, one particular deep voice managed to make itself heard above the rest: "_So there I was, staring down the biggest buck I'd ever seen_ ..." He glanced up to see Gaston sitting before the fireplace, surrounded by a small group of villagers. He reclined casually in his ridiculous antlered chair while his admirers clustered tightly around him, eyes wide and jaws slack. He paused dramatically in his tale, lifting his mug to take a long sip from his beer, and even from a distance Adam could see his lips curl into a little smirk as his audience inched forward breathlessly. Adam looked away as intense, visceral feelings of resentment stirred in his gut. So _that_ was what Gaston had been doing while he was breaking his back in the cellar. Why did he get to pal around with his buddies while the rest of them worked like dogs to keep his tavern running?

Perhaps Adam should have minded his business, but something made him look over again. And the instant that he stopped watching where he was going, he rolled the cask right into Camille, who was carrying a handful of overflowing mugs to a group of waiting customers. "Oh!" she gasped as she staggered into him, and the contents of the mugs spilled down the front of Adam's pants. "Oh no, I'm so sorry!"

The men who had been waiting for their drinks burst into laughter. "Oy, Gaston!" a heavy-set, bearded man hollered. "It looks like this fella was so excited for the rest of your story that he wet himself!" Gaston guffawed appreciatively. This, in turn, set his little group of hangers-on braying like a herd of donkeys. The laughter rippled through the room, until it seemed like everyone in the tavern was turning to look at Adam, standing there in a puddle of beer.

Adam felt his entire face burn, right down to the tips of his ears. In all of his life, no one had ever dared to laugh at him like that - or if they had, they had at least had the good sense not to do it to his face. He whirled abruptly on the table where the bearded man and his companions were sitting. Their howls of laughter sputtered out into a bleat of uneasy chuckles as he drew near, his features contorted with rage, and he felt an almost overwhelming surge of satisfaction from the wary glances that they exchanged with each other as he loomed over the table. His pulse quickened as he imagined the looks on their stupid, simpering faces when he revealed their mistake and they begged for his forgiveness in front of all of their friends.

Unexpectedly, it was exactly this image that caused him to hesitate just as he was about to let his tormentors know precisely with whom they were dealing. What was he doing? Was he really about to announce his identity to a room full of jabbering idiots when his father's men were almost certainly scouring the countryside for any sign of him? Hadn't he already suffered enough setbacks as it was? He took a step backward, and the men at the table silently watched his retreat. The realization of just how close he had come to blowing his own cover negated any feelings of pleasure he might have taken from their discombobulated expressions. Instead he gritted his teeth, pushed past a red-faced Camille, and stormed back to the bar.

"Hey, you're not just going to leave the beer there, are you?" Lefou whined as Adam grabbed a bar towel from a shelf. Adam said nothing, but shot him a glare so withering that Lefou shrank away with a mumbled promise to fetch the beer himself.

By some small miracle, no one bothered Adam for the next several minutes as he hid behind the bar, trying to dry what now comprised his only pair of pants with the threadbare towel. By the time he had wrung out as much of the beer as he could, the buzz of conversation in the tavern had presumably turned back to whatever fascinating subjects the villagers had been discussing before his mishap.

"Catherine!" a voice suddenly bellowed from the crowd. Adam looked up to see the source of the voice, and frowned when he saw the bearded man who had mocked him earlier waving from one of the tables. He glanced down to the end of the bar, where Catherine stood up to her elbows in basin full of sudsy water.

Catherine groaned and wiped the back of a damp arm across her forehead as she scanned the tavern. "I don't see Camille. Would you go see what he wants?" she called to Adam. "I need to finish washing these mugs."

Adam balked at this request. Hauling casks was one thing, but he'd be damned if he was expected to wait hand and foot on some loudmouthed peasant. "He's looking for_ you_. I'll finish washing those," he said, reaching for the stein in Catherine's hand.

"No, wait -" she protested, but it was too late. The soapy mug slipped from Adam's fingers and shattered on the ground, sending little shards of glass dancing in all directions across the knotty wooden floorboards.

Catherine jumped back with a gasp. "_Étienne_!" she cried in dismay.

Adam waved her off. "It's just a glass," he said, reaching for the broom in the corner. "I'll clean it up."

"No, _I'll_ clean it up," Catherine sighed irritably, grabbing the broom from his hand. "Will you just go see what Stanley wants?" She gave him a small but firm shove away from the bar, and made a shooing motion with her hands when Adam opened his mouth to argue. "Just _go_."

Adam threw his hands up in defeat. _Fine_, he seethed. _But don't expect me to hop to it just because some poor slob is thirsty_. He deliberately took his time in making his way toward Stanley and his friends, even though he knew he was only delaying the inevitable. "What do you want?" Adam demanded brusquely when he finally reached the table.

Stanley narrowed his eyes at Adam. "Where's Catherine?"

"She's busy," Adam replied, crossing his arms. "What do you want?"

"Who are _you_, Gaston's new beer wench?" Stanley smirked, clearly proud of himself for this bit of rapier wit.

"I'm _helping_ Gaston," Adam growled impatiently, dropping his arms to his sides and balling his fists. "Now did you want something, or not?"

"Aw, what's the matter, Buttercup?" one of the other men chimed in. "Are your breeches still wet? Maybe you should see if one of the girls will lend you a dress." His friends laughed heartily at this suggestion, but Adam had finally reached the end of his limited patience with their stupid jokes. One way or another, he would see that these nobodies treated him with the respect that he deserved.

He tensed and drew his arm back; however, a slender set of fingers closed around his wrist before he could throw the punch. "_Don't_."

"Catherine!" Stanley cried happily. "We were just talking about you."

Adam turned around and came face-to-face with a stern-looking Catherine. She shot him a disapproving look before releasing her grip on his wrist. And then, abruptly, her gaze shifted to the table and her frown melted into a warm smile. "All good things, I hope," she chirped, winking coyly at the trio of villagers.

A nauseatingly lovestruck look came over Stanley's face. "Oh, of _course_," he assured her. "I was just telling Tom and Dick here how much I liked your new hairdo. Wasn't I, boys?" Tom and Dick nodded their heads vigorously and murmured some vague words of agreement.

Catherine giggled girlishly and tossed her long ponytail over her shoulder. "You didn't call me over just to tell me _that_, did you?"

Stanley's cheeks reddened. "Well ... I _was_ hoping you might be able to bring us another round - if you aren't too busy, of course?"

"Anything for you, Stanley," Catherine replied sweetly. "Étienne, will you help me get their drinks?" Her fingertips dug firmly into Adam's forearm as she pulled him away from the table.

Angrily, he yanked his arm from her grip. "What are you doing?" he demanded once they were out of earshot of the table.

"Saving your job," Catherine retorted, without a trace of compunction. "What were you _thinking_, starting a fight with a customer?"

Adam scowled as he followed her to the bar. "_I_ didn't start it, _he _did."

"It doesn't matter."

"But they were - "

"It doesn't _matter_," Catherine repeated. She grabbed three mugs and filled them from the nearest cask. "Gaston would fire you in a second if he saw you hitting one of his friends." Adam raised an eyebrow hopefully - had she just given him a way out of his deal? But an instant later, she dashed his hopes. "_Without_ pay. Is that what you want?"

"No," Adam muttered, knowing he had no real choice in the matter. Thanks to the men who had run off with his belongings, he had less to his name than the dimwitted peasant to whom he was now indebted. He needed that money, just as much as he needed the roof over his head.

"Then don't start trouble - _or_ allow anyone else to goad you into it," she added when Adam opened his mouth to argue again. "I know Stanley and his friends can be a little ... rough around the edges. But it's all just talk - they don't mean any harm. They're really a bunch of softies once you get to know them."

"I doubt that," Adam grumbled.

Catherine shrugged. "I'm only trying to help." Then her expression softened. "If you can finish washing those mugs for me, I'll bring their drinks over. But you won't be able to avoid them forever, you know; they're in here almost every night. You need to find a way to get along with them."

Adam rested his forearms on the bar as he watched Catherine return to Stanley and his friends, who were now engaged in some sort of bumbling three-way arm wrestling match. _Get along with _them? The idea would have made him laugh if he had been in a better mood. _That will _never_ happen_.

* * *

"Boy, you look like you could use a drink."

Wearily, Adam lifted his head from his arms to see Lefou pushing a beer across the table. "Thanks," he mumbled, though in his exhaustion it sounded less intelligible than that. He sat up and wrapped his hands around the mug, but found that he was too tired to actually raise it to his lips and take a drink. The last of Gaston's patrons had finally stumbled home to their beds about an hour ago, and that was when Adam, Lefou, Catherine, and Camille had gotten to work mopping floors, wiping down tables, and washing dishes. Serving a bunch of grubby farmers had been humiliating enough, but the indignity of cleaning up after them proved to be at least ten times worse. It was bad enough that some of these people smelled like animals - did they actually have to _behave_ like beasts too?

He stared down into his mug, hypnotized by the head of thick foam that spilled over the rim. He longed for his cushy, comfortable bed back home. And then he realized that nothing was keeping him from his bed here: the customers were gone, the tavern was clean, and Lefou was preparing to escort Catherine and Camille back to their home. He pushed away from the table, abandoning his untouched beer. "I'm going to bed," he announced.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Gaston asked from the next table over, where he was busy counting up the evening's proceeds. Adam's alarm must have shown on his face, because Gaston laughed before clarifying: "Your money."

"My ..." Adam's eyes widened. Of course - how could he have forgotten?

Gaston walked over and handed Lefou, Catherine, and Camille each a small share of the take before handing an even smaller cut to Adam. "Here you go."

Adam frowned at the handful of coins resting in his palm. "What is _this_?"

"It's your payment," Gaston replied, tilting his head and giving Adam an odd look.

"But this is hardly anything!" Adam complained. He gestured to Camille, Catherine, and Lefou, as the trio hastened out the door. "You gave all of them at least _twice_ as much as you gave me!"

"That's because none of them owe me room and board," Gaston said slowly, as if explaining things to a child.

Adam's mouth opened and closed without making a sound. Then he sagged, despondent, in his seat. He cast a baleful look at the paltry collection of coins in his hand. He couldn't remember ever working so hard in his life - _so why do I have so little to show for it_?

It was then that Adam realized that his problems were much bigger than he had initially believed. He had counted on being able to continue his journey to Prussia in a week or two, at most. But at this rate, he would be an old man before he got out of this damn village_._

* * *

_It will be a Festivus miracle if anyone is still following this story after the long delay between chapters. But for anyone who's made it this far, thanks for sticking with it, and I promise to try to get the next few chapters up a lot more quickly. I also owe a big thanks to TrudiRose for working her beta kung fu (beta fu?) on this chapter._


	8. Chapter 8

"Look, Gabrielle, look! There he is! _Bonjour_, Gaston!"

"Oh! _Bonjour_, Gaston! _Bonjour_!"

"Hello, ladies." With a wink here and a wave there, Gaston acknowledged his legion of admirers as he sauntered past the market stalls of the village's main thoroughfare. "Good day ... Say _bonjour_ to your mother for me ..." His appearance in the streets was welcomed with the sort of fanfare normally reserved for a conquering hero returning home from war. Women swooned, children cheered, and merchants took breaks from hawking their wares to shout greetings as he passed. As he approached the _boulangerie_, the baker's wife even hurried out to offer him a fresh breakfast roll, which he accepted with a smile and a murmured _merci_. As his teeth tore into the warm, flaky pastry, he cast a stealthy glance at the man walking beside him, curious to see how he was taking all of this in. No doubt, it had to be exciting to know that you were working for the most important man in the town. So then why did Étienne look as if he had just swallowed a mouthful of spoiled milk?

_He must still be upset about his stuff_, Gaston concluded reasonably. To be honest, the robbery still rankled him as well. Not only had a couple of lowlife thieves gotten the better of him, but they had done so in broad daylight, in full view of his fellow villagers. By the time the tavern had opened for business last night, it seemed as if the entire town had heard all about their "daring heist." Gaston was not a man who was used to failure, and to have failed in such a public manner was almost more than he could bear.

And as if the blow to his reputation wasn't bad enough, the consequences of the crime had the potential to be even more far-reaching for him. If word of the incident spread to the nearby villages, for instance, it could also be very bad for business. After all, who would want to spend the night at an inn that was known for attracting a criminal element, particularly one that robbed the clientele right under the rugged, perfectly proportioned nose of the owner?

Gaston knew that if he was going to limit the damage done by the theft, he needed to act quickly. He also knew that showing some charity to the man who had been robbed in his tavern would go a long way toward restoring his image as the village's self-appointed savior. So when Clothilde had suggested hiring Étienne to help around the tavern, it had seemed like the answer to his problems. If the neighboring towns caught wind of the robbery, then surely they would also hear about how Gaston had stepped forward to personally set the hapless victim back on his feet.

And the arrangement helped him out in other ways as well. He hadn't been lying when he told Étienne that he was shorthanded. Since the triplets' mother had fallen ill, they had had to make sure that one of them was home at all times to care for her and to manage the household. That meant that while he normally would have had three barmaids to tend to his customers every night, he had been making do with only two for the last several weeks. He had actually been planning to hire another girl from the village to pick up the slack, but bringing Étienne on board turned out to be an even better solution. Étienne could assist with other tasks that would be too difficult for a woman to manage. And since he had a debt to work off, his labor came cheap. It hardly cost Gaston anything to put him up in the smallest guestroom and throw a few _deniers_ his way each night.

Gaston stole another quick look at Étienne as he turned to wave to a group of wide-eyed children. Despite everything, his new hireling was still a bit of a mystery to him, he realized. _He seems honest enough, but he's kind of grouchy. And quiet. _Really_ quiet_. Étienne had been in Gaston's employ - and under his roof - for a full day now, and Gaston still didn't know much about him except for his first name. He had no idea how old he was, but he appeared to be a few years younger than Gaston: twenty, maybe twenty-one? He had the physique of a laborer - strong and able-bodied, at least by the standards of average men - but his hands were smooth and well-manicured, which seemed to suggest a less physically demanding vocation. He had already proven useful around the tavern in any event, and Gaston was glad that he had thought to take Étienne along to help at Helene's. Not that he couldn't finish the job by himself, but having another set of muscles at his disposal - even if they were inferior to his own - would certainly speed things along. He might even have time to go hunt if they finished early enough.

As they rounded a bend in the road, and the little farm run by Hélène and her husband Jacques came into view, Gaston was pleased to see that a sizable crowd - comprising mostly women - had already gathered in the field near the hen house. He had sent Lefou out ahead of them to let the townspeople know what was happening, knowing that the ladies of the village liked to watch him work. _If it's a show they want, it's a show they'll get_. He ignored the slight chill in the air as he rolled up the sleeves of his tunic to better display his massive biceps.

"So, what do we have here?" he said loudly, and the onlookers turned expectantly at the sound of his voice.

"Can you fix it, Gaston?" one of them shouted as he strode past the crowd.

"What will you do if the wolves come back?" another fretted.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa. _ Slow down." Gaston smiled at them reassuringly. "Let's just see what the problem is here."

He struck a pose in front of the chicken coop, one hand perched on his hip while the other tapped his chin in time to his nonexistent thoughts. He had already examined the coop a day earlier, of course, and had determined _exactly_ what the problem was, as well as what needed to be done to fix it. But now that he had spectators, he made a show of inspecting the hen house once more. He reached out to rap a knuckle against one weathered wall and then nodded to himself, by all evidence satisfied with what he saw.

His audience shuffled along behind him as he methodically circled the rickety old structure. Occasionally, he paused to mumble some unintelligible observation under his breath. When he reached the large and very conspicuous hole that had been dug near one corner of the building, he crouched down in the dirt and allowed a handful of the loosened earth to sift slowly through his fingers. He brushed his hands off on his upper legs and made to stand back up when a hushed conversation taking place somewhere behind him made him hesitate:

_"Stop staring, Sophie! He's going to see us!"_

"_But_ _I can't help it! Would you just look at those muscles!_"

Gaston grinned knowingly to himself as he stood up and casually clasped his hands above his head. With his back to the crowd, he flexed, slowly and deliberately, evidently to the delight of the two giggling women.

"_And he's so handsome! Those eyes - have you ever seen such a lovely shade of blue?"_

_Lovely_? He wasn't sure if that was the word that _he_ would have chosen, but he did have to admit that his eyes were pretty spectacular. He turned his head to the side and lifted his chin slightly, so that the ladies had a good view of his chiseled profile, and he was rewarded with an appreciative sigh.

"_I don't care what they say,_ _I've always loved men with red hair."_

Gaston tossed his head back and - _wait_. Did they say _red_ hair? His hand went instinctively to his head. That wasn't right. His hair was a deep, manly, jet _black_ \- it always had been, from the day he was born. He turned around with a frown. He immediately spotted the two young women on whom he had been eavesdropping - they were standing huddled together in the crowd, giggling and whispering furiously to each other. Both appeared to be watching the same thing with rapt attention, but to Gaston's further bemusement, it was not him. He turned again, slowly, following the directions of their gazes, and was taken aback when his eyes finally landed on ... Étienne, leaning against the hilt of a shovel and looking as if he might die of boredom at any moment. _C'est impossible_! Gaston looked back to the girls, certain that he had made some sort of mistake, but their eyes remained fixed on the same point - or rather,_ person_.

His frown deepened. _What's the big idea_? This was _his_ show, not Étienne's! He had only brought Étienne along to help - okay, and maybe to show off a little bit for the guy - but definitely _not_ so that he could horn in on Gaston's glory.

"I've found the problem!" Gaston blurted, and his ego was somewhat appeased when the girls' attention instantly snapped back to where it belonged. _That's more like it_. He cleared his throat before continuing. "The wolves appear to have dug their way beneath this wall."

"How'd you figure that one out?" Étienne muttered sarcastically.

Gaston felt a little flash of anger. Why had he let Clothilde talk him into bringing Étienne along again? Here he was, trying to do the man a favor and let him tag along for the day, and how did Étienne repay him? By sabotaging his act! Well, he would put a stop to that. But he couldn't lose his cool, not in front of all of these people. No matter how much they respected him, it wouldn't look right for him to be picking on a man who was already clearly down on his luck. Gaston had to figure a way to get rid of Étienne _without_ provoking the townspeople's sympathies for him any further, and he needed to do it quickly, before Étienne ruined everything. _If only there were some sort of errand I could send him on, something harmless that would get him out of the way for a while so that I can work in peace_. And then an idea began to form in his head - an idea that would not only get Étienne out of the way, but would also put him in his place in the most devious and satisfying way.

"Étienne," Gaston called, beckoning him over. "I need you to get something for me. It's an emergency."

Étienne made a noise of exasperation, but he left the shovel resting against a pile of timber and trotted over to Gaston. "Now what?"

"I need you to bring me a wrench."

"A _wrench_?" Étienne echoed doubtfully. "We don't need a wrench to do this," he protested, gesturing to the timber.

Gaston folded his arms and arched an eyebrow in challenge. "How would you know? I thought you didn't know anything about building chicken coops?"

For a second or two, Étienne looked like he was ready to argue further. But then his eyes flickered uncertainly toward the shovel, and he sighed. "Fine. Where do you keep your wrench? Behind the bar somewhere?"

"Oh, _no_," Gaston replied with barely suppressed glee. "I need you to go to Maurice Dupont's house and borrow one from _him_."

"Maurice _who_?"

"He's an old man who lives just outside the village," Gaston explained, pointing vaguely east. "Take the main road over the bridge, and then follow the dirt path until you get to a cottage. The place has a water wheel out front, and some funny looking contraptions on the roof - you can't miss it." Maurice's cottage was all the way on the other side of the village, and well on the outskirts. It would take Étienne some time to make it out there and back. Not to mention, Maurice would probably insist on showing the newcomer all of his kooky "inventions" before he let him leave. Étienne had no idea what he was in for; it could be _hours_ before he returned. Hours during which Gaston, and Gaston alone, would have the full attention of his audience.

Gaston's mouth twisted into a crooked smile as he watched Étienne make his way back to the road. _Have fun, pal. Maybe next time, you'll think twice before you try to show _me _up_.

* * *

_"__At last the Prince came into a chamber all gilded with gold, where he saw, upon a bed, the curtains of which were all open, the finest sight was ever beheld -__"_

**Knock, knock.**

Belle frowned and lowered her book. Who would be knocking at the door _now_? It was late morning; most of the village would be hard at work tending to the fields, caring for their families, or trying to sell their goods in the marketplace. And it wasn't as if she and her father received all that many social calls. Maybe if she ignored whoever it was, he or she would go away. She had just gotten to the best part of the story, and whoever was at the door surely could not be more interesting than _that_. She pulled her feet up underneath her and read on eagerly.

_"... __the finest sight was ever beheld: a Princess, who appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen years of age, and whose bright, and in a manner resplendent beauty, had somewhat in it divine. He approached with trembling and admiration, and fell down before her upon his knees.__"_

_"__And now, as the enchantment was at an end, the Princess awakened, and looking on him with eyes more tender than the first view might seem to admit of -"_

**KNOCK, KNOCK. **

Belle threw her head back and groaned. With a sigh, she reached for a ribbon to mark her page, and then placed her book on the table. _This had better be important_, she thought as she made her way to the door. She reached for the spyglass that her father had rigged up to the peephole and peered through the lens. And when she saw who was waiting on the other side, she had to rub her eyes and take a second look, just to make sure she wasn't imagining things. It was the stranger who had bumped into her in the village the day before. _What is _he_ doing here?_ She somehow doubted that he had come to apologize for his rude behavior, which left her with very few other explanations for his unexpected appearance on her doorstep.

"Can I help you?" she asked as she opened the door, trying to keep her tone neutral.

Judging by the look on his face, the man was as dismayed to see her as she was to see him. "What are you doing here?" he asked bluntly.

"I _live_ here," Belle responded impatiently. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm looking for Maurice Dupont."

"Well, then I'm afraid we're both in for an unpleasant surprise. My father's not home."

"Your - your _father_?"

"Yes, and as I said, he isn't home. Now, if you'll excuse me ..." Belle made to shut the door, but the man wedged his foot firmly between the door and the frame.

"_Wait_! When will your father be back?"

Belle scowled at him. "How is that any of your business?"

The man returned her scowl in kind. "Gaston needs to borrow a wrench. It's an emergency."

_So he's a friend of Gaston's. Well _that_ explains a lot. _Belle crossed her arms. "If I give you the wrench, will you go away?"

"_Gladly_," the man huffed.

"Fine. Wait here." Belle slid past the man - but not before making sure that the door was shut tightly behind her - and descended the short flight of steps to the ground. She glanced up to make sure that he hadn't moved from his spot before giving the doors to the cellar a tug. She paused for a few seconds in the threshold, breathing in the smell of earth and machine oil as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in her father's workshop. The floor was cluttered with all manner of odd-looking machinery, which she tiptoed gracefully around as she made her way to the work area in the back.

Despite her pique at the unwelcome interruption, she couldn't help a fond little smile as she reached out to select a wrench from Maurice's tool collection. Her father could be scatterbrained at times, but he was nothing short of meticulous when it came to maintaining his tools, which were lovingly polished, sorted, and laid out on a table next to the workbench. Would he mind that she was loaning one of his most prized possessions to a man who ridiculed him for his very obsession with them? _Probably not_, she rationalized. Maurice had never been the petty type. Besides which, he probably would have been thrilled at the opportunity to share his interests with one of their neighbors.

With a deep breath, Belle put aside her lingering doubts and returned to the stranger standing on the steps. "Here," she said, pressing the wrench into his hands and trying not to recoil as his fingers brushed hers. He took it and turned to leave without uttering a word. "Don't forget to bring it back!" she called after him. His only response was a quick flick of his hand, as if he were trying to shoo away a fly. "_You're welcome,"_ Belle sighed as she watched him disappear into the distance.

* * *

Gaston seemed genuinely surprised to see Adam when he returned to the farm. "Back already?"

Adam narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He supposed that Gaston thought it was funny to send him on a wild goose chase. And that's what it had been, he had known it almost from the start. He didn't know _why_ Gaston had decided to send him on the fool's errand, but he hadn't particularly cared either. It had gotten him out of digging in the dirt with a bunch of sweaty farmhands, and that had seemed like reason enough to play along at the time. If he had known what he was getting himself into, however, he might have been less inclined to cooperate with Gaston's stupid prank. "Here's your wrench," he growled, ignoring Gaston's question and tossing the tool onto the ground near where Gaston was kneeling.

A ghost of a smirk flitted across Gaston's face. "And how _was_ dear old Maurice?"

"I wouldn't know," Adam responded irritably. "I had to borrow this from his daughter."

Gaston's back straightened, and his expression turned suddenly serious. "Belle was there?" he asked with noticeable interest.

"I didn't get her name."

"Well did she have long dark hair, and big dark eyes?"

"I was too busy thinking about how stubborn and obnoxious she was to notice her eye color," Adam grumbled.

"_Whoa_ there," Gaston cautioned in a low voice. "You'd better watch what you say about my future wife."

"Your future _what_?"

"My future _wife_. I'm going to marry Belle."

Adam looked down at Gaston in surprise. "You _are_? But I thought you and Clothilde ... or was it Camille ...?" He let the sentence trail off without completing the thought.

Gaston chuckled and shook his head wryly. "No, no, you've got it all wrong. I mean, the girls are fun and all, but they're not really _wife _material. Belle is the only woman in town who's worth marrying."

Adam's face scrunched up in disbelief. "_Her_?" He supposed that in a little provincial village like this one, the marriage prospects were bound to be slim. Still, Gaston was clearly _revered_ in the town; he could have any woman he wanted, judging by the way the village girls fawned over him. So why pick some disagreeable shrew over any of the other women who practically threw themselves at him? "Surely you can do better than her?"

"Nope." Gaston shook his head adamantly. "She's the most beautiful girl in town. That makes her the best."

The first part was true enough, Adam supposed. Even he could admit that, objectively, Belle was very attractive. She might have even been one of the most attractive women Adam had ever met. And yet, that didn't seem like enough of a reason to subject one's self to a lifetime of putting up with her terrible attitude. Especially when one had his pick of eligible women. "She's pretty enough," Adam conceded. "But why else?"

"Why else _what_?"

"Why else is she the best?"

Gaston looked at him blankly. "I don't understand the question."

It took a considerable amount of Adam's willpower to bite back the snide response that rose to the tip of his tongue. "What does she have to offer besides her looks?" he asked instead.

"What else_ is_ there?" Gaston eyed him warily, as if trying to determine whether his question was a trick.

Adam threw his hands up in desperation. "What if you have nothing in common? What if she's a nag? What if she only likes to talk about boring things?"

Gaston paused to ponder this possibility, and for a moment Adam thought he might actually be getting through to him. "Boring things. You mean like her books?"

"Sure."

"Pffffttttt! I never listen when she starts babbling on about that nonsense!" Gaston threw Adam a conspiratorial wink. "I just think about something else while I wait for her lips to stop moving."

_Mon Dieu, he's serious_, Adam realized with astonishment. "So you're really willing to spend the rest of your life stuck with this woman, for no reason other than because she's _pretty_?"

"Yup," Gaston agreed.

Adam shook his head in wonder. "Better you than me."

* * *

_Thank you again to TrudiRose for her help in beta-ing this chapter, and especially for helping me make sure that Gaston comes across as the dopey, egotistical guy we all love (or not). Thank you also to everyone who left such kind reviews on the last chapter - I don't know where you all came from, but I'm grateful for your feedback and glad that you're enjoying this so far._

_The excerpts from the book that Belle is reading are taken from The Project Gutenberg English translation of Charles Perrault's _La Belle au Bois Dormant (The Beauty Sleeping in the Wood)_. I've made some minor edits for clarity, but it's not my work._


	9. Chapter 9

"_Ouch_!"

Belle yanked her hand away from the tangled mess of vines with a cry of pain, and the momentum sent her rocking back on her heels. She ended up on her rear in the dirt before she could even try to steady herself, surrounded by the fledgling fruits and vegetables that she had been working so hard to cultivate in her little garden. _At least I didn't land on the cabbage_, she thought ruefully, taking a quick peek at the ground beneath her. She shot a murderous look at the prickly vines, now lying limp and harmless among the squash, before turning her attention to her stinging fingertips. She ran her thumb gently over the pads of her first two fingers; they were slightly red and a bit swollen, but at least the skin didn't appear to have been broken.

Distractedly, she brushed her hair back from her forehead and then hugged her knees to her chest as she surveyed the garden. _This is pointless_. She had been hoping that some of the winter squash would be ripe enough to harvest and sell to the greengrocer by now. But the stems were still crisp and green, and the book she had read on gardening had warned against picking the fruit before the vines began to wither and brown. From the look of it, it would probably be a few more weeks before any of it was fit to eat.

Belle exhaled in despair. M. Marchand wasn't likely to press the issue, but that didn't mean that she liked the idea of making him wait so long for a new book. He was one of the few people in the village who she felt she could count as a real friend, and the thought of disappointing him made her feel physically ill. Not to mention, she didn't think she would feel right asking to borrow any _more_ books from his shop until she had made good on her promise to replace the one she had ruined.

But new books cost money, and she didn't _have_ any money. Not any of her own, anyway. Her father had some meager savings socked away for emergencies, but she didn't think it was fair to tap into them. This was _her_ debt, and hers alone. For the same reason, she didn't want to sell any of the eggs their chickens had laid or the milk their goats had produced. The garden, on the other hand, had been her own personal project - more of an experiment than anything - and it wouldn't set them back if she sold some of the yield. Unfortunately, the garden had yet to actually _yield_ anything, so that meant that she was back to square one.

Or maybe not. Belle gazed off into the distance, and she heaved a heavy sigh when her eyes found what they were looking for: the roof of the grist mill, just visible through the thinning leaves of the trees downriver. There _was _another possibility that she had been trying not to think about, but with her options rapidly dwindling, maybe it was time to give it some serious consideration. Mme. Farine, the miller's wife, had been trying for several weeks to convince Belle to pose for a portrait. She was a surprisingly talented amateur painter, and she had decided that the most beautiful girl in town - her words, not Belle's - would make the perfect subject for her next masterpiece. The last time she had asked, she had even offered Belle a small sum of money for her trouble. Belle had politely declined, as she had with each of the previous requests. It was disheartening to think that the only thing that any of the villagers seemed to value her for was her looks. As if there were nothing more to her than a pretty face! And she suspected that if she agreed to sit for the portrait, she'd only be _encouraging_ that attitude. But now, thanks to Gaston's charming new friend, she had little choice but to swallow her pride, pay Mme. Farine a visit, and see if the offer still stood.

One of the Duponts' goats, who had been happily munching his way through some nearby foliage, wandered over and began to nibble at the edge of one of the cabbages. "Oh no, you don't!" Belle murmured warningly, scrambling to her feet and gently shooing the goat away before he could do any real damage. She brushed the dirt from the seat of her dress as she watched him scamper away. With a sigh, she looked back toward the cottage. The stew she had left simmering on the fire should be just about done. Maybe some brilliant new idea would strike her while she was eating her lunch. _But if not, I suppose I should at least clean up before I call on Mme. Farine._

* * *

Adam wished he knew what he had done to get on Gaston's bad side. It seemed pretty clear that he was being punished for _something_, but for perhaps the first time in his life, he had no clue what he had done to deserve it - or even _if_ he deserved it. What he did know was that the errand that had sent him to Belle's house yesterday afternoon had seemed to be deliberately designed to make him miserable. Gaston had completed the repairs on Hélène's chicken coop without so much as _looking_ at the wrench he'd insisted Adam borrow. He had, however, been visibly delighted to hear of Belle's overwhelming mutual disdain for Adam, and had taken plenty of opportunities to revel in Adam's obvious misery over having to deal with his impossible fiancée.

And now here Adam was, a day later, being sent back to Belle's house to _return_ the unused wrench. He walked head down, hands in his pockets, kicking a rock along the winding dirt trail that led out of the village. A light breeze sent the occasional leaf skittering across his path, but overall it was unusually warm for a mid-autumn day. It would have been a perfect day to take Étienne out for a long ride, to read a book under a tree, or to take a nap in the grass - to do pretty much anything other than call on a woman he wanted nothing to do with. He gave the rock another not-so-gentle nudge with his boot, and this time it went airborne and caromed off of a tree. Adam lifted his head to see where it had landed, and realized that he had nearly reached the end of the path; Belle's cottage loomed just ahead in the clearing. The low-lying autumn sun bathed its cream-colored brick walls in a warm glow. The shutters had been thrown open, revealing whimsical, heart-shaped silhouettes that had been cut into the blue wooden panels. The lopsided chimney emitted delicate wisps of smoke that disappeared into the cloudless sky. The quaint little home looked like something straight out of a fairy tale. _Like a house made of sweets_, Adam reflected wryly as he climbed the short flight of steps to the door. _Complete with a witch who'd probably like nothing better than to push me into an oven._

Spurred on by these cheerful thoughts, Adam raised his hand and knocked. When several seconds passed without an answer, he knocked again, this time more loudly. "Come on," he groaned, tapping his foot restlessly against the concrete landing. _Can we just get this over with, please?_ He could practically picture the sour look that he was sure to receive when Belle opened the door; this wasn't going to be pleasant for either of them, so the quicker it was done, the better. At this rate, however, he'd be standing there all afternoon before anyone even noticed his presence. He waited a few more moments, then stole a furtive glance over his shoulder, put his hand on the doorknob, and twisted. The door opened easily. "Hello?" he called, stepping hesitantly over the threshold. "I've come to return the wrench!"

Still there was no response, only a low, drawn-out creak as the heavy wooden door swung closed behind him. _They must be out_, he mused. That was preferable, actually. He could just leave the wrench and go without being drawn into another row with Belle - or worse, an awkward tête-à-tête with her father. No one seemed willing to tell him_ exactly_ what was wrong with Maurice Dupont, but it was obvious that the other villagers considered him to be something of a joke, and Adam wasn't in much of a laughing mood at the moment.

He stepped further into the foyer, his eyes quickly sweeping his surroundings for a convenient place to leave the wrench. He passed a staircase on his right, and something on the edge of his vision suddenly moved. He tensed, certain he had just been caught red-handed trespassing in Belle's home. He squeezed his eyes shut, silently cursing to himself as he braced for the browbeating that was sure to come. But when nothing happened, he slowly eased his eyes open - and the air went out of him when he found himself face-to-face with nothing more than his own reflection, blinking back at him in disbelief from a little mirror mounted above a chest of drawers.

A shaky laugh escaped his lips as he curiously approached the mirror. To be sure, the mirror showed a much less tidy version of himself than he was used to seeing, even on his worst days. His simple cotton shirt - an old, several-sizes-too-big tunic that had once belonged to Gaston - hung loosely from his upper body. His attempt to neaten his long hair that morning without the benefit of a comb or mirror had, apparently, been a spectacular failure. And was that ...? "Huh," he breathed, turning his head to the side and allowing his fingers to trace the fine, reddish-gold stubble that had appeared along his jaw. It wasn't much - just enough to barely tickle his fingertips - but a rebellious thrill surged through him as he imagined the look of horror that it would have elicited from his father's overly fastidious barber. _If I keep this up, at least I won't have to worry about anyone recognizing me_.

He smirked to himself as he stepped away from the mirror and turned back toward the foyer. His cautious footsteps sounded louder than normal to his ears in the empty cottage, which was still and silent except for the crackle of the fire that burned in the large stone hearth. A cast iron kettle swung on a crane above the flames, filling the air with a strong, savory aroma that served as a reminder of just how bland his breakfast had been that morning. As he drew closer to the fire, he could see that someone had taken the time to paint a dainty garland of flowers along the wooden mantelshelf, which was cluttered with an assortment of mismatched stoneware and cooking utensils.

A tall wooden bookcase stood to one side of the fireplace, reaching almost as high as the ceiling. Books had been crammed onto the shelves in every manner possible - upright, sideways, double stacked - until there appeared to be no room for even one more. As Adam's eyes skimmed the titles, he noticed some authors who were familiar to him - Perrault, Ovid - and others who were not. Most of the books appeared to be in weathered but well cared-for condition, as if someone had read them over and over again.

A simple sitting area had been set up on the other side of the fireplace, consisting of a drop leaf table and two little chairs. One of the chairs, a rocker, was fitted with a faded red cushion. A colorful patchwork quilt had been draped haphazardly over the arm of the other chair. A thin fringed tablecloth covered most of the tabletop, and a single bowl and set of cutlery - _only one?_ \- had been set out on top of it. A handkerchief had been placed next to the bowl, and the vague outline of a shape was just visible beneath it. Adam was surprised to find that the space felt oddly cheery and inviting despite its size and its humble furnishings. _Don't get too comfortable_, he reminded himself as he glanced toward the kettle. Someone would be coming back soon, and he did not want to be there when they returned.

The table seemed like as good a place as any to leave the wrench, Adam decided. Whoever had set the bowl out would probably be sitting down to lunch in a few minutes, and when they did, they would find the wrench. But he had only taken a few steps when he was suddenly sent stumbling into the rocker. He looked down to see what had tripped him, and, to his dismay, saw that he had knocked over a pile of books that had been stacked on the floor next to the chair. If he had been in anyone else's home, he would have left them where they lay. It would have served whoever had put them there right - who left piles of books on the floor, anyway? But he knew that when Belle found the wrench, she would know that it had been he who had knocked them over. She'd probably hunt him down and give him an earful for ransacking her house, and the last thing he wanted was to create reasons to see her again. Muttering irritably to himself, Adam slammed the wrench on the table and bent down to retrieve the scattered books.

Most of them had landed within a fairly small distance from the rocking chair, and Adam was able to gather those quickly. The last two books, however, had ended up under the table, almost near the wall. Adam got down on his hands and knees, with the side of his face pressed against the floorboards, and stretched his arm toward the books. He grasped the first one, slid it toward him, and then reached his arm out again to grab the other. As his fingers closed around the book, he lifted his shoulders - and drove the back of his head hard into one of the hanging leaves of the table. He swore out loud as he scrambled out from under the table, rubbing his head gingerly. Two of everything swam in front of his eyes: two fireplaces, two tables, two portraits of Belle with a child - wait, two _what_?

Adam blinked several times in rapid succession, trying to force the images before him to coalesce into one. When his vision finally cleared, he carefully got to his feet, so that he could get a better look at the large portrait that hung in the previously hidden corner of the room. Belle smiled serenely back from the canvas, posed amid a burst of vibrant pink and white roses and dressed in a deep pink gown with long, lacy sleeves. She held a large, well-worn book in one hand, while the other hand was used to steady a little girl who was perched on her lap. Adam could hardly stop himself from gaping at the sweet little scene. Did Belle have a _child_? With all of the busybodies in this village, how was it possible that no one had mentioned anything about _that_? Was she Gaston's? Or was her father another man?

Adam leaned over the table and reached his fingers toward the painting. He cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes as he studied the cozy-looking pair. "Oh," he exhaled moments later, in a mixture of realization and relief. Now that he looked more closely, it was obvious that the beautiful woman in the pink dress was not Belle. She had the same heart-shaped face, fair complexion, and dark, wavy hair. But there was a worldliness in her expression, and particularly in her bright green eyes, that hinted at her being a few years older than Belle. Still, the resemblance was too great to be a coincidence. Maybe she was an older sister? _Or_ _Belle's mother, perhaps_?

But then that meant ... Adam's eyes slid to the chubby-cheeked toddler peeking out from behind the book, and he felt the corners of his mouth tug up involuntarily. Belle's inquisitive hazel eyes gazed back at him from the face of a child. Little Belle was smiling shyly, and Adam wondered if that was the reason he hadn't recognized her in the first place. It was hard to imagine the girl he had argued with in the square looking at him with such a sweet, happy expression.

Without warning, Adam's examination of the painting was cut short by a gust of wind that blew through the open window. The fire flickered briefly, and the handkerchief from the table came fluttering toward him on the breeze. He caught it with one hand and went to replace it, and that's when he noticed the open book that had been lying hidden beneath the little square of cloth. The pages were stained and slightly warped, as if they had been left out in the rain, and his memory drifted to the book that Belle had dropped in the mud when they had met in the square two mornings earlier. But the tattered condition of the book was hardly the most intriguing thing about it. To his surprise, the text was printed not in French, but in _English_. It wasn't unusual for young noblewomen to speak a foreign language or two, of course. But a _peasant_ girl reading English? To say it was unexpected would be an understatement.

Curiously, he picked the book up and flipped it over to look at the cover. It, too, was stained with mud, but he could still make out the title embossed across the top: _A Midsummer Night's Dream_. Adam grimaced. _Ugh, Shakespeare_. He _hated_ Shakespeare. Of course, he'd never actually managed to make it all the way _through_ one of the Bard's plays, but just the name conjured unpleasant memories of tutors looking sternly over his shoulder as he tried to make sense of verse after verse of utter nonsense.

"_YOU!_" A sharp voice interrupted his reverie, and Adam looked up to see Belle standing in the entryway of the cottage. Her pretty features were twisted in anger. "What are you doing?"

His entire body went suddenly cold. "I - what?"

"What are you _doing_ in here?" Belle asked, moving quickly across the floor. "And why do you have my book?"

"I was just looking -"

"Who told you you could look? I don't remember inviting you in!" She snatched the book from his hands and gave it a brief once-over before clutching it protectively to her chest.

Adam could feel the initial shock of being caught wearing off, and now his temper was starting to take over. "I came to return your father's wrench," he retorted, his voice rising in defense. "You didn't answer the door."

"So you thought, what, that you'd just invite _yourself_ in?"

"No, I -"

"Get out of here! Leave me alone!" She pushed him towards the door. Adam could have easily resisted, but he was too dumbfounded by her reaction to put up a fight. He stumbled out onto the landing, and the door slammed shut behind him a moment later.

_Well_, he thought, sparing one last glance as the closed door behind him, _that went well._

* * *

_Big thanks to TrudiRose for her help again in beta-ing this chapter! I promise the next one will be more fun, and feature more of Belle, Adam, and Gaston interacting._

_RE: my-secret-garden: The dialogue at the end of the last chapter didn't come directly from The Swan Princess, but it was a nod to the movie. I like to throw random references into the story, mostly just to amuse myself while I write, but it's always nice it if ends up amusing someone else too!_


	10. Chapter 10

"Okay, on three. One, two, thr -"

"Wait, wait, _wait_!" Lefou cried, causing Adam to release his grip on the heavy crate he was crouched over. "Are we lifting when you _say_ three, or is it one, two, three, _then_ lift?"

Adam folded his arms behind his head, tilted his face skyward, and forced himself to take a couple of long, deep breaths. _How did this become my life_? A week ago, he had lived in a shining castle. He'd been pampered and respected and treated like royalty by a team of servants who made sure he never had to lift so much as a finger. And now? He was loading a bunch of junk into some derelict wagon parked outside Gaston's tavern, with no one to help him except for some useless, bumbling idiot. He was drenched in sweat from the effort and the unseasonable warmth, tired from a restless night spent on a lumpy mattress, and grouchy for more reasons than he could count. "When I _say_ three, _all right_?" he finally answered in a voice laced with weariness.

"All right." Lefou's head bobbed in agreement. His tongue poked out of the side of his mouth as he pushed up his shirtsleeves, only to have one of them immediately fall back down on him. He wrapped his stubby little arms around the crate, and then looked up at Adam with wide, expectant eyes.

Adam moved languidly as he dropped his arms and crouched down next to the crate again. He dug his heels into the ground and gripped the edges of the box tightly. "One, two, -"

"Ooof!" Abruptly, Lefou's feet went out from under him, and he toppled backward onto the dusty cobblestones.

"What _now_?" Adam coughed, waving a hand to chase away the cloud of dirt that had kicked up in the wake of Lefou's tumble.

"Sorry," Lefou replied sheepishly from the ground. "I thought you were _about_ to say 'three.'" He scrambled back to his feet. "Try again?" he suggested, positioning himself across the crate from Adam once more.

Adam made a noise of exasperation. "Fine. But this time, just _wait _for me to say it. Got it?"

"Got it."

"One, two" - Adam looked up at Lefou to make sure he was paying attention - "three!" With mighty grunts, they lifted the crate from the ground and heaved it onto the bed of the wagon. "What's in these things anyway?" Adam gasped, gesturing to the various cartons, sacks, and other items they had already loaded.

"Just some supplies Gaston's bringin' out to his hunting cabin," Lefou replied.

"What is he, hosting a party?"

Lefou chuckled. "Nah, he just wants to make sure he's got everything he needs to track those wolves. He doesn't wanna have to come back here to get his stuff if he gets a good lead on 'em."

"_When_ I get a good lead on them," Gaston corrected him loudly as he led his horse around to the front of the wagon. "Those beasts better enjoy their last days, because they won't escape me for long. And when I - _hey._" His voice rose in dismay. "What's wrong with the wheel?"

Adam raised his head. "What wheel?"

"This one." Gaston kicked at the left front wheel with the toe of his boot. Sure enough, the wheel sat crooked on the end of its axle, causing the entire cart to list slightly to one corner.

Adam held up his hands. "I didn't do it."

"Me either!" Lefou hurried to chime in.

"Well, the cart's not going anywhere with a busted wheel," Gaston sagely observed. "You two will have to unload it so that I can prop it up and get a look."

Adam looked back at the bed of the wagon in disbelief. _Unload all of _that? _And then load it all back up again_? "You're joking," he said flatly.

Gaston clapped him on the back. "If I was joking, you'd be laughing. I'm going to go get my tools; you start getting everything out of the wagon."

Adam hung back near the rear of the empty wagon as Gaston and Lefou huddled over the lopsided wheel, murmuring to each other in low voices. He couldn't hear a word they were saying, but that hardly bothered him. After a few minutes' deliberation, Gaston finally motioned for him to come closer. It appeared as if Gaston was about to ask for something, but when he finally looked up, something behind Adam caught his attention instead. His eyes went wide, his face broke into a broad smile, and then he leaped to his feet with more grace than Adam would have thought possible for a man of his size. He stuck out an arm and leaned casually against the wagon. "_Hello_, Belle."

Adam turned to look over his shoulder, and the groan of displeasure that had risen instantly in his throat at the mention of Belle's name died on his lips when his eyes found her. Lefou whistled appreciatively, and for once, Adam actually had to agree with him. Belle had eschewed her usual practical frocks that morning in favor of a lovely rose-colored day gown with a ruffled hem that grazed the tops of her feet. The gown's soft fabric draped gracefully around her slender figure, and the deep pink hue brought out a warmth in her hazel eyes that Adam had never noticed before. Her long dark hair was pulled up into an elegant twist that was finished with a fine enamel comb, though the breeze had managed to free a few stray locks that now hung loosely around her face. Adam could hardly tear his eyes from her - and he wasn't alone. Belle's appearance seemed to have turned the head of every person in the square.

She showed little interest in basking in their admiration, however. In fact, she didn't bother to slow her pace or even look in Gaston's direction as she acknowledged him with a terse,"_Bonjour_, Gaston."

But her tepid greeting didn't seem to deter Gaston. He jogged up to her and placed himself directly in her path. She leaned as if to go around him, but Gaston quickly lunged to the side. She made to move in the opposite direction, and Gaston did the same. Finally, she huffed and looked up at him. "Can I _help_ you, Gaston?"

Gaston beamed at her. "I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you look this morning," he said, making no effort to be subtle as his eyes lingered somewhere south of her eyes.

Belle looked back at him in surprise. "Oh. Well ... thank you." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she looked away self-consciously.

"Anytime. Say, it would be a shame to get all dressed up like this for nothing. Why don't you stick around for a while, come in for a drink, have a look at my trophies?"

"Maybe ... some other time," Belle replied in a tone that, to Adam's ear, sounded a lot more like "never." She looked off down the street. "I really need to get to the mill right now."

Gaston's smile faded into a look of bemused disappointment. "You got all dressed up like that ... to go get some _flour_?"

A deep blush rose to Belle's cheeks, and she looked away again. "I ... agreed to let Mme. Farine paint my portrait," she confessed with obvious reluctance.

Gason's face split into its widest smile yet. "She finally talked you into that, did she? I _told_ her if she just kept asking, your vanity would eventually get the better of you."

"I'm not doing it for vanity!" Belle exclaimed. She appeared slightly abashed when the three men looked at her in shock. "I - she offered to pay me if I agreed to sit for her," she explained in a small voice.

Gaston looked almost hurt by this admission. "You need money? Why didn't you come to me? How much do you need?"

"I don't need _your_ money, Gaston! I can earn it myself. I only need enough to buy a book."

"What kind of book?" Gaston's eyebrows shot up hopefully. "Is it a cookbook?"

"What? _No!_" Belle replied with a beleaguered shake of her head. "It's a _story_ about fairies, and sprites, and love spells gone wrong -"

"A cookbook would have been better," Lefou muttered, shooting a sidelong look at Adam as if to ask, "Am I right?"

Gaston snorted in agreement. "Fairies and sprites! Belle, do you _hear_ yourself? It's all a bunch of make-believe! Why would you want to waste your money on some silly, made-up storybook?"

Belle's face grew red again, and she shot a quick look at Adam. "Because I ruined it, and it didn't belong to me. Besides, storybooks aren't a _waste_, Gaston. They -"

"Yeah, yeah." Gaston shook his head with a long suffering smile, and then he reached for her hand. "'New worlds' and all that nonsense. Have it your way. But if you insist on going over to the mill, at least let me walk you over there. A pretty thing like you shouldn't have to walk all by herself. And just imagine what a stunning pair the two of us would make walking through the village _together_."

Belle stepped back, just out of his reach. "I'm perfectly capable of finding the mill by myself, thank you. You look busy here. I wouldn't want to interrupt."

"What, _this_?" Gaston scoffed. "We're just straightening out the wheel on my wagon. Lefou and Étienne can finish up on their own."

Adam's alarm must have been evident on his face, because Belle laughed dryly. "You might want to check with _Étienne _to make sure of that. Now, if you don't mind, I need to be going. Goodbye, Gaston." This time, Gaston didn't try to stop her as she walked off.

Adam breathed a sigh of relief. He'd never fixed a wagon before, and he wasn't sure how he would have been able to finish the repairs even with Lefou's "help." He felt his curiosity pique as he watched Belle disappear down the road, though. "I thought you two were getting married," he remarked, turning to raise an eyebrow at Gaston.

"We _are_," Gaston replied.

"Does _she_ know that?"

"Well, I may not have _formally_ proposed just yet," Gaston admitted. "But I'm getting around to it. And once I do, it's as good as done."

"You're sure about that? She looked like she couldn't wait to get rid of you just now."

"Pssshhhh." Gaston laughed him off with a wave of his hand. "Do you have a girl back home, Étienne?"

An image of Elisabeth flitted briefly through Adam's head. "_No,_" he replied firmly.

"Well let me tell you something about women. They like to play hard to get, but deep down, they all want the same thing: a man to put a roof over their head, food on their table, and babies in their arms. And Belle's no different. When the time comes, there's no way she'll turn me down. I'm going to make her dreams come true."

Adam said nothing, but he stole another curious look at Belle's retreating figure, which was by now just a little dot of pink in the distance. He knew little about her, and even less about her dreams, but something told him that marrying Gaston didn't rank particularly high on her list of life's goals. So far, she was the only person he'd encountered in this village who didn't treat Gaston as though he walked on water.

After seeing Gaston and Lefou off, Adam went back inside and settled into to what was, for better or worse, becoming his new routine: playing cards by himself at a table in the corner. It didn't take him long to grow bored of playing single-person games, however; beating the deck wasn't nearly as satisfying as beating an opponent who could actually think and react. He wondered if Clothilde knew any card games, but then he remembered that she was still giving him the silent treatment. And so, after a few listless hands of _Le Cadran_, he finally decided to abandon the deck of cards and wander back to the bar. He rummaged around for the cleanest mug he could find, and then he poured himself some ale. The beer was warm and bitter, but not unpleasantly so, and Adam drank it down eagerly before pouring himself another.

He was halfway through his sixth mug when the door to the tavern suddenly flew open. It bounced against the wall with a force that rattled the bottles on the shelves. Adam jumped, spilling the rest of his beer onto the floor. "_Merveilleux_," he growled, before reaching behind the bar for the mop. He shot a dirty look toward the door, expecting one of Gaston's unruly friends, and he did a double take when he saw a scrawny, disheveled-looking boy of twelve or thirteen years stumble over the threshold instead. The boy looked up desperately at Adam before doubling over and gasping for breath. "What do _you_ want?"

"_G-Gaston_!" the boy wheezed, clutching his side. "Where is Gaston?"

"He's not here," Adam replied.

The boy's eyes went wide with panic. "W-what do you mean, he's not here?"

"He and Lefou left a little while ago to deliver some supplies to his hunting cabin. Come back tonight."

"_No_! It can't wait that long!"

"Look, kid -"

"Jérôme."

"Look, _Jérôme_, I'm sure whatever it is, Gaston will be happy to deal with it when he comes back."

"But it _can't_ wait that long!" Jérôme insisted. "It's the wolves - they're back!"

"What do you mean, they're back?"

"I saw them at the mill! My mother sent me there to get a sack of flour. But when I got there, there were wolves. A bunch of 'em! Hanging around the field, right by the river! It's the same ones that Gaston's been after since summer, I just know it!"

Adam's stomach dropped slightly at the mention of the mill, but he forced an air of nonchalance. "Well, I'm sure he'll get them next time. But don't worry, I'll let him know you came by." He turned back toward the bar and resumed his mopping, assuming that Jérôme would get the message and leave. But when he sneaked a glance over his shoulder, he saw that the boy remained rooted to his spot.

"What about the Farines?" he implored. "And Belle?"

Adam's stomach dropped a little further. "What _about_ the Farines and ... Belle?"

"The wolves trapped them in the mill!"

"Are you certain about that?"

Jérôme nodded emphatically. "I saw them chase Mme. Farine and Belle in there. I think M. Farine was already inside."

"Well ... I'm sure they'll be fine," Adam promised, hoping that Jérôme wouldn't pick up on the tightness in his voice. "As long as they stay inside, the wolves can't get to them. And eventually, the wolves will get bored and leave." He wasn't _actually_ sure about that, but he thought it sounded like reasonable advice.

But Jérôme look unconvinced. "So we're not going to do anything?"

"Well what would you _suggest_ we do?" Adam inquired with a put upon sigh. "Go chase the wolves away ourselves?" Jérôme shrugged ever so slightly, but Adam shut him down immediately. "Not happening. Like I said, I'll tell Gaston about it when he gets back, and I'm sure he'll be more than happy to take care of them if they haven't already run off by then. But in the meantime, I have to clean up this mess. And _you,_" he added with a pointed look toward the door, "should get back to your mother before she starts to worry."

This time, Jérôme seemed to take the hint. He left, but his words stuck with Adam as he fought to ignore the twisting feeling in his gut. _It's not my problem_. He had his own headaches to worry about, he reminded himself as he jabbed doggedly with the mop at an invisible puddle on the floor - and tangling with a pack of ravenous wolves was definitely _not_ one of them. So what if the only reason Belle had even ventured out to the mill was to replace the book that he'd been responsible - _partly_ \- for ruining? He had a feeling that Belle would have found a way to get herself into a jam with or without his help.

So then why couldn't he shake this nagging sense of guilt? Adam leaned a forearm against the end of the mop handle and raked a hand through his hair. It wasn't like this was the first time he'd done something that ended up putting someone else in a bad spot - though perhaps "bad spot" was a bit of an understatement in these circumstances. To his knowledge, none of his previous misdeeds had ever resulted in _physical_ harm to another person. But if the wolves got to her, Belle could be hurt badly, or even be _killed. _His mind raced through a dozen scenarios, each more gruesome than the last. He remembered hearing stories as a boy about a series of deadly attacks in Gévaudan. The large number of casualties - as well as their exceptionally grisly natures - had inspired rumors of a bloodthirsty supernatural beast roaming the province. In the end, however, the culprits had turned out to be nothing more than a few larger-than-average grey wolves, probably not unlike the ones now prowling around the mill. So he knew that the danger Belle was facing could be very real ... and that, as much as he tried to deny it, he had played a very real part in putting her there.

Adam closed his eyes and let out a ragged breath before gripping the mop and racing out into the street. "Wait!" he called out to Jérôme, who he spotted up ahead in a frantic conversation with the baker. "Where is the mill?"

* * *

_Thank you to TrudiRose for her help in beta-ing this chapter._


	11. Chapter 11

The homes and shopfronts of Molyneaux passed by in a blur as Adam raced after Jérôme. He wasn't sure if this was because he was moving that quickly, or because he was starting to feel the effects of the five and a half mugs of ale he had just knocked back. The entire dash through the village felt a bit foggy and dreamlike, like all of his senses were functioning a split second more slowly than normal. When Adam tried to recall the experience much later, all he would remember of it was the monumental amount of concentration it had taken to keep Jérôme in sight as he zigged and zagged through the unfamiliar streets on the way to the mill.

As they approached the end of the main road, Jérôme suddenly pulled up short. Adam skidded to a stop just before he went careening into him, and then dropped his hands to his knees and promptly retched in the street. In his stooped position, he realized for the first time that one of his hands was still clutching the mop that he had been using to clean the tavern floor. He looked at it, bleary-eyed and perplexed. _Why do I have this_? he wondered through the haze of nausea. But he didn't have much time to dwell on the matter, as another dizzying round of convulsions quickly seized his insides.

He wasn't certain for exactly how long this went on, but when the ground beneath his feet finally seemed to stop spinning, he wiped a sleeve across his mouth and warily lifted his head. He was standing on the edge of a wide field that sloped steeply away from the street. Adam had not yet been to this part of the village, but he had managed to retain enough of his bearings to know that the river that ran along the town's outskirts should lie at the bottom of the long incline, making it an ideal location for a mill.

"This is it?" he asked Jérôme, who was hovering a conspicuous distance away and watching him with a mixture of wonder and revulsion.

Jérôme confirmed Adam's suspicions with a nod. "_Oui_. The mill is at the bottom of the hill."

"Down there?" Adam asked, turning his head toward the field. Jérôme nodded again. "Right," Adam said, and he was surprised by how steady and clear his voice sounded. He straightened and took a step toward the field, his vision swimming just a little as he did so.

"Wait!" Jérôme exclaimed. "What are you going to do?"

Adam looked back at him. "I don't know," he replied truthfully.

"Well what is the broom for?" Jérôme asked, gesturing to Adam's hand.

"It's a mop," Adam replied dumbly.

"What is the mop for?"

"I don't know," Adam repeated. His head was starting to hurt, and he was pretty sure that this time, it had nothing to do with the alcohol. Well, _almost_ nothing to do with the alcohol. He took another few steps in the direction of the field, and then stuck out an arm as Jérôme made to follow him. "_No_," he said firmly. "You stay back here."

"But ..."

Adam shook his head. He may not have known what he was going to do when he found the wolves, but he _did_ know that he didn't need some meddling kid getting in his way while he did it. "Go get some help," he instructed Jerome. "And maybe a gun," he added, almost as an afterthought. He watched Jérôme run back in the direction from which they'd just come, and when he was satisfied that the boy didn't intend to sneak back and follow him, he set off down the hill.

He moved slowly at first, his eyes darting back and forth as he scanned the field. To his surprise, he didn't see any sign of the wolves. In fact, the landscape before him actually appeared rather ... peaceful. The river rushed past at the bottom of the hill, sunlight glinting off its surface as it wound its way through the valley and disappeared into the mountains in the distance. A modest two-story cottage, not unlike Belle's home, stood near its rugged shoreline. A short distance downstream, on the edge of the woods, the mill perched on a rocky outcropping that jutted out over the river. Although Adam couldn't see it from his angle of approach, he could hear the groan of a heavy wooden water wheel being urged into motion by the current. All in all, it was a rather typical bucolic setting.

The only indication that anything was amiss was the overturned easel lying in the shrubbery near the water's edge, and the remnants of what had probably once been a canvas, which were now strewn over the grass. Reddish splashes of paint - or, at least, Adam _hoped_ it was paint - appeared to still be dripping from the leaves of the bushes. But the wolves themselves seemed to be gone. The thought left Adam feeling strangely disappointed. Had he rushed over here for nothing?

He was about to turn away when a movement at one of the windows on the ground floor of the mill caught his eye. A face pressed up against the glass, and he realized that he was being watched. At this distance, the features were too indistinct for him to make out the person's identity; all he could discern was that whoever it was was wearing a lot of pink. _Belle?_ The person began gesticulating wildly, as if trying to get Adam's attention. Adam squinted at the window, but try as he might he couldn't figure out what they were trying to tell him. Shaking his head, he took a few more steps toward the mill, and then he stopped dead in his tracks as the meaning of the frantic gestures suddenly became clear: a massive wolf rounded the far corner of the building, its muzzle buried in the tall grass as it prowled along the riverbank. It was followed by another wolf, and then another. The hairs on Adam's arms stood on end, and he felt the mop handle slide from his grip as his palms began to sweat. He had never seen a wolf this close before - not a live one, anyway - and his nerve rapidly melted away as the reality of what he was doing began to sink in.

_This is crazy_, he thought, seemingly coming to his senses for the first time since he had left the tavern. What had he been thinking, rushing down here alone? Why had he not waited for Jérôme to return with some help? He couldn't take on a pack of wolves all by himself - especially not without a weapon of some kind! He glanced down at the mop in disgust. _All of the firearms Gaston has stashed in the tavern, and I grab_ this? The only saving grace of the situation was the fact that the wolves did not appear to have noticed him yet.

Adam began to cautiously back his way up the slope, retreating to the relative safety of the road above. Belle and the Farines were in no imminent danger inside the mill, he reasoned. They could wait a few more minutes for some help to arrive. He, on the other hand, was suddenly feeling very exposed in the wide, empty field. He stole a quick look over his shoulder to see how far he was from the road. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to just turn and sprint up the hill as fast as his legs would carry him, but he knew that any sudden movement risked giving away his presence.

_Crrrack! _He froze as something snapped loudly underfoot, and his eyes flickered quickly down to the ground. The toe of his boot had come down on the end of a short, spindly tree branch. _Merde!_ He held his breath as he looked back to the riverbank, and let it out shakily when he realized that the wolves hadn't heard the twig break. But just to be safe, he slid his feet carefully along the ground as he resumed his backward motion, taking small shuffling steps so as to avoid creating any more unwanted noise.

A breeze ruffled his hair and sent a few dry, fallen leaves skittering toward the river. As the wind blew across the water, the largest of the wolves sat back on its haunches and lifted its snout. It sniffed at the air for a few seconds, and then slowly turned its head toward Adam. Its eyes were a vivid yellow - Adam could see that even from halfway up the hill - and they met Adam's dead-on. Its mouth curled immediately back into a snarl that revealed a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth. The sound drew the attention of the other two wolves, who stopped and turned, with hackles raised, toward Adam.

Adam's heart raced as he braced himself for their charge. But the wolves advanced up the hill slowly, which was somehow even worse because it gave him more time imagine all of the painful and terrifying ways in which the encounter could end. He was thinking clearly now, much more clearly than he had been when he had barged out of the tavern, and he promised himself that if he somehow made it out of this alive, he would never drink again.

_Just keep them all in front of you_, he reminded himself, continuing to retreat gradually up the hill. _Don't let them surround you, and don't let them out of your sight_. He thrust the handle of the mop directly out in front of him like a _fleuret _and drew himself up to his full height, trying to make himself appear as large as possible. But his feeble attempt at intimidation seemed to make little difference, as the wolves closed the distance to him more quickly than he could widen it.

The largest of the trio hung slightly back as its smaller, rangier companions closed in. Then, when they were close enough for Adam to smell the foul, gamy stench clinging to their damp fur, the scrawniest member of the pack suddenly launched itself at him. Adam's reflexes sprang into action before his brain could even process what was happening, jabbing with the end of mop handle as the wolf sailed through the air. There was a sickening splintering sound as he drove the tip straight into the wolf's rib cage, and for a second, he feared that the handle had broken. But then the animal emitted a high-pitched whine as it crumpled to the ground. "Ha!" Adam exclaimed, nearly giddy with surprise and relief. One wolf down, and he had barely broken a sweat! The animal whimpered and writhed helplessly at his feet, but he jumped away from the reach of its jaws anyway, not wanting to take any chances.

Another wolf, slightly stockier than the first, stepped in front of its fallen packmate and growled at Adam. It moved to circle him, but Adam stepped quickly to the side, trying to keep the wolf between him and its bigger companion. As he did, his heel struck a hard chunk of rock, and he made the mistake of looking down as he stumbled over it. He couldn't have taken his eyes off of the wolf for more than a second or two, but a second or two was all that it needed. The wolf lunged forward and sank its teeth into Adam's calf, and he cried out in anguish as a blinding pain tore through his leg. Instinctively, he brought the handle of the mop down on the animal's skull with all of the strength he could summon. There was no sound this time, except for the crack of wood against bone, but the wolf's jaws instantly slackened. It hobbled away unsteadily, clearly dazed by the blow, and Adam took the opportunity to give it another sound strike with the mop. This time it sank silently into the grass, unmoving, though Adam knew better than to count on it being incapacitated for long.

Adam stole a glance at his injured leg, and right away he wished that he hadn't. Blood was already soaking through his tattered breeches, leaving a damp, quickly spreading stain in its wake. Adam had never been comfortable with the sight of blood, and the sight of so much of his _own_ blood seeping out of him made him immediately woozy. He barely registered the flash of pink streaking across the field as he staggered backward, trying to swallow back the bile that he could taste in his mouth. Fleetingly, he wondered where Jérôme was, but he didn't dare take his eyes off of the advancing wolf to look for him. Making that mistake again would surely doom him.

He knew couldn't let the wolf make the first move this time, not when he was already so clearly at a disadvantage. If he was going to gain the upper hand, or at least give himself a fighting chance of getting out of this, he had to go on the offensive. He swung desperately with the mop, aiming for the wolf's forelegs in the hope that he could at least slow it down until help arrived, but it leaped deftly out of the way. He made contact on the second try, but rather than injure the wolf, this only seemed to anger it. It whipped around, teeth snapping, and closed its jaws around the handle. With a quick jerk of its head, it bit the wood in two, and Adam was suddenly left clutching the short, jagged end of his broken weapon.

He looked from the splintered wood to the wolf in horror. The wolf's ears flattened back against its head as it snarled at him once more, and then it was airborne. The edges of Adam's vision darkened rapidly as he fell to the ground, until all that he could see was the flash of the animal's teeth closing in on him. Then a shot rang out across the field, and everything went black.

* * *

The next thing Adam became aware of was a searing pain in his leg. The entire limb felt as if it were on fire, and Adam could feel hot tears escaping from the corners of his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. "Ooow," he moaned weakly, and he was startled by just how pitiful his voice sounded. _Was that really me_? "That _hurts_." He tried to twist away from the source of the pain, but something was holding his leg in place, and he couldn't quite muster the strength to free it.

"If you'd hold still, it wouldn't hurt as much," a voice chided him sternly, but not unkindly.

Adam's eyes snapped open, and he found himself staring straight into the face of a man he had never seen before. The man appeared to be middle-aged, with a hooked nose and sharp eyes that somehow reminded Adam of his father's eyes, even though they were gray instead of brown and studying him through thick, square-framed spectacles. Startled, Adam tried to back away from the man before realizing that he had nowhere to go: something was behind him, and it was preventing him from going anywhere. He looked back, and his surroundings seemed to spin for a moment before he realized that he was actually lying down. The thing behind him - or rather, below him - was a well-worn settee. The man who had scolded him was sitting on a stool next to the settee, and he was holding Adam's leg down with two hands. Adam's breath hitched in his throat, and he thrashed weakly in an effort to free himself.

"It's all right, son, it's all right." The man spoke in a calm, soothing tone, but his grip on Adam's leg tightened noticeably. "I'm just trying to help you. But I can't do that if you don't hold still."

"Who are you?" Adam croaked.

"I'm Auguste Sentirbien. I'm the village physician." Adam relaxed at this, but only a little. The man was a doctor, and his desire to help seemed genuine. But whatever it was that he was doing to Adam's leg was _excruciating_. Adam turned his head to the side, and he caught of glimpse of the doctor dipping a cloth into a small basin of steaming water. A pile of used cloths, soaked in water and blood - _is that _my_ blood_? Adam wondered in a panic - had been discarded on the floor next to the basin.

Adam hissed and jerked his head back as M. Sentirbien pressed the newly damp cloth along the tender part of his leg. "I really am going to need you to hold still if you want me to clean this wound out properly," the doctor reminded him. His eyes met Adam's in a pointed look, and Adam nodded meekly to show that he understood.

Adam cast a skittish glance at his surroundings, trying - mostly unsuccessfully - to distract himself from the pain as the doctor resumed his ministrations. They appeared to be in a sitting room, though it wasn't one that Adam recognized. In addition to the settee and the stool, Adam could see a small table and a pair of upholstered armchairs positioned in front of a fireplace. The walls were adorned with several paintings, most of which depicted picturesque country settings. However, a few of them were rather skilled portraits of various people who Adam assumed lived in the home, though none of them appeared to be present at the moment.

"Where _am_ I?" Adam murmured.

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until M. Sentirbien replied, "In the parlor of M. Farine's home. As I understand it, you passed out in his field after getting into a skirmish with some wolves."

_Wolves ..._ Adam closed his eyes as his memories began to slowly fall back into place. That was right - he had somehow gotten the crazy idea that he could chase off the wolves that had been prowling around near the mill, and by the time he had realized just what a bad idea it was, they had already turned the tables on him. He remembered one of the wolves biting down on the leg that M. Sentirbien was now tending to. There had been blood - a lot of it - and the memory made Adam's stomach clench uneasily. The last thing he remembered was the largest wolf leaping toward him just before he lost consciousness. He had been sure he was a goner, and yet here he was, alive and - well, maybe not _well _exactly, but _alive_ nonetheless. "I thought they were going to kill me," he mumbled, more to himself than to the doctor.

"They very well might have, if your friend here hadn't gotten hold of a rifle and chased them off," the doctor replied, gesturing to the foot of the settee.

Adam's eyebrows drew together. _My friend_? Then it hit him: Jérôme! So the boy _had _come through after all! Adam felt his chest swell with more gratitude than he had ever felt for another person. "Kid," he breathed as he struggled up onto his elbows, "I could kiss ... ." He broke off when he saw that it was not Jérôme who was sitting at his feet, but _Belle_. "...you?" he finished feebly. Belle's eyes widened in alarm before darting away from his.

"_Ahem_," M. Sentibien coughed. "I'd appreciate it if you would save any kissing until I've finished debriding these wounds," he said, while motioning for Adam to lie back down.

"We're _not_ going to ..," Belle objected loudly, at the same time that Adam managed to stammer out, "Un-until you finish doing _what_ to the wounds?"

M. Sentibien sighed patiently. "If you don't want them to become infected - and I assume that you don't - then I'm going to need to remove some of the tissue surrounding the lacerations." If he hadn't already been lying down, Adam was sure that his legs would have gone out from under him right then. He whimpered loudly, nearly drowning out the doctor's next words. "Belle, would you please hold this against the wounds while I go sterilize my scalpel?"

A moment later, Belle's face appeared at his side and blocked the doctor from Adam's view. Now that Adam could see her up close, he noticed that she looked a bit worse for the wear. Her dress was covered in dirt and grass stains, and her hair had fallen out of its complicated-looking twist. _This is all _her_ fault_, a voice railed in Adam's head, while another noted, irrationally, how pretty she looked with her hair down. Trouble seemed to follow her wherever she went, and Adam always seemed to be the one that suffered for it.

Adam felt M. Sentirbien briefly release his calf, and then a smaller set of hands hesitantly took hold. "That's it, firmly, just like that," the doctor encouraged, placing his hands over Belle's and applying more pressure. Adam gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as another sharp pain shot through his leg. Then M. Sentirbien rose from his seat, and Belle took his place on the stool at Adam's side.

"So let me get this straight," Adam growled when M. Sentirbien was finally out of earshot. "The three of you had a _gun_ in there the whole time?"

Belle was sitting so close that he swore he could actually _feel_ the heat radiating off of her cheeks as they reddened. "Of course not!" she shot back. "The gun was in _here_, but we couldn't get to it while the wolves were so close. I saw an opportunity and made a run for it while you had them distracted."

"_Distracted_?" Adam nearly choked on the word. "Is that what you call almost getting eaten alive by wild animals?"

"Hey, _I _didn't tell you to go chasing after them with nothing but a broom!"

"It was a _mop_!"

"Oh, that's _much_ better!" Belle rolled her eyes angrily. "Even Gaston isn't foolish enough to take on a pack of wolves without a weapon!"

"Yeah, well, maybe I should've just let you wait for _Gaston_ to come and rescue you!" Adam spat.

"Well, why didn't you?" Belle countered.

"_Because ..._," Adam's voice rose stridently, but then trailed off when he found that he couldn't complete his retort. What _could_ he say? That he had rushed to her aid in a moment of guilt-fueled introspection that may or may not have been exacerbated by alcohol? He was already feeling a bit vulnerable in his current position, and he wasn't exactly eager to make it worse by dissecting his crisis of conscience - or his drinking habits - with her. But if he said nothing, then he'd look like an even bigger fool than he already felt. "Because I couldn't stand the thought of having to listen to Gaston spend the next week boasting about how he scared the wolves away," he finally grumbled, feeling somewhat satisfied with that answer. There was a grain of truth to it, even if it wasn't _entirely_ true.

Belle's brow creased as she thought about this, and he was certain that she had seen right through his flimsy explanation. But rather than call it out as he expected, she took a different tack. "I thought you and Gaston were friends?" she said quietly.

Adam exhaled forcefully in a halfhearted attempt at a laugh. "I wouldn't call it that."

"What _would_ you call it?"

Adam closed his eyes and sighed. "I _work_ for him." Even now, the word still felt foreign on his tongue. "Or at least, I do until I can pay off the debt that I owe him." _And Lord knows how long that will take_, he thought to himself.

"You _owe_ Gaston?" Belle echoed skeptically.

Adam nodded wearily. "I spent the night in his inn, and I was robbed before I could settle my account. I lost everything I had, so working for him is the only way I have to repay him - and to save enough money to get out of here."

Belle looked down at her hands, and he could almost see her brain putting the pieces together. "So that morning in the square, when ... when we _met_ ... you really _were_ chasing after thieves?"

"Unfortunately, yes. But they were long gone by that time."

Belle was silent for several moments. Then, she raised her eyes to his and said simply, "I'm sorry." When Adam made a noise of surprise, she explained, "I can't imagine how hard it must be to suddenly lose everything. And then to be stranded in a strange place on top of it. It would take its toll on anyone, I think." There was no pity in her tone, only reflection and a hint of contriteness that was somehow more of a comfort to him than her pity would have been. A look of understanding passed between them before M. Sentirbien reentered the room. They both looked up quickly, and Adam blanched as his eyes landed on the scalpel in the doctor's hand.

"If it would make you feel better," Belle said, so quietly that only Adam could hear, "I can stay with you until he's done."

Adam swallowed and nodded haltingly. He was surprised, though not displeased, when her small hand slipped into his own. As she surrendered her seat to the doctor, she positioned her body so that it blocked Adam's view of his leg. That was probably for the best, he reasoned, but he still tensed in apprehension as he waited for the inevitable pain to grip him. He winced at the pinch of the blade when it finally sliced into his flesh a minute or so later, and he felt Belle give his hand a tiny squeeze. He squeezed back with much more force, and immediately worried that it had been _too_ much force, but if it had been, she didn't protest. So he closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and tried to will himself to focus on the warm, reassuring press of her fingertips against his palm until the worst was over.

The doctor worked wordlessly on Adam's wounds, breaking his silence only once to warn Adam when he was about to apply an antiseptic preparation. "This may sting a little," he cautioned, which turned out to be a major understatement. But Belle dutifully held on to Adam's hand as he grimaced through the pain. He nearly jumped when M. Sentirbien finally spoke again: "That should do it."

Adam slowly raised himself to a sitting position with Belle's assistance, and it wasn't until she withdrew her hand from his that he realized he was still gripping it. He reluctantly forced himself to look at his leg, and he sagged against the settee with relief when he saw that the wounds had been completely concealed under a thick layer of bandages that wrapped around the lower part of the limb.

"Try to keep your weight off of your leg for the next two days, at least," M. Sentirbien advised as he packed his belongings into a small black case. "No running, absolutely no lifting things, and minimal walking until I give you my say so. Gaston can make do with one less attendant for a few days."

"But how will I get back to the tavern?" Adam protested, thinking of the long trek back through the village that awaited him.

"M. and Mme. Farine are out front preparing their cart so that they can bring you back," M. Sentirbien answered. "I'll come by in the morning to see how the healing is progressing and to change the dressings. Send for me if you need anything for the pain before then." Then he turned his attention to Belle. "And you, how is the pain in your shoulder?"

Belle blushed slightly. "It's nothing, really."

M. Sentirbien nodded. "The bruising will take a few days to go away. It will probably feel quite sore in the meantime. Ah, Mme. Farine," he said, turning to a short, silver-haired woman who appeared in the entryway. "I take it the cart is ready to go?"

Mme. Farine thanked Adam profusely as she led him and Belle out of the home, but Adam heard maybe only half of it. He leaned against Belle as they hobbled through the door together, trying not to allow too much of his weight to rest on her shoulder, which was wedged under his armpit. "You're hurt," he said in dismay, casting a sidelong glance at her profile.

"I'm _fine_," Belle insisted, with a tiny, almost exasperated shake of her head. "It's just a bit of bruising, from firing the rifle. The recoil took me by surprise," she admitted, looking down sheepishly.

"Oh." Adam felt an inexplicable wave of relief wash over him as she helped him into the bed of the cart, which had been covered with a thin layer of straw. _Nothing like riding in style_, he thought wryly as he offered a hand to help her up. Then a thought occurred to him. "Did you hit any of them? The wolves, I mean?" He tried to suppress a grin as he imagined the look on Gaston's face when he found out that his bookish, petite fiancée had been the one to bring down his most coveted trophy.

But Belle shook her head, dashing his hopes. "Not even close. But I _scared_ them. You should have seen how quickly they took off," she said with a trace of pride that brought a genuine smile to Adam's lips for the first time in days.

"I wish I had. You know," he began, clearing his throat awkwardly as the cart lurched up the hill, "that was pretty brave of you to run for the gun. You were safe in the mill. You could have just stayed in there and let me ... let the wolves ... you know ..."

"_No_," Belle replied emphatically. "I couldn't. Especially not when you put yourself in danger to help us. To help _me_ \- even though I haven't been particularly nice to you. I still don't understand why you did it, but it was brave of you, and ... I appreciate it." There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was noticeably softer than it had been just seconds ago. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, thank you. For saving me." She looked up at him with a smile that was shy, but sincere, and Adam suddenly felt a bit short of breath.

"You're welcome," he managed, wondering when the last time was that he had done anything worthy of such gratitude. "And ... thank _you_. For saving me. I guess that makes us even."

Belle's smile widened in response. "I guess it does."

* * *

_Muchas gracias to TrudiRose for her beta-ing and advice on this monster (at least by my standards) chapter!_


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, Adam discovered that, despite his best efforts, his days of keeping a low profile in Molyneaux were over. Virtually overnight, word of the wolf attack - and Adam's dubious heroics - had spread throughout the village. From almost the moment he woke, he found himself beset by a seemingly endless parade of well wishers.

It all started when he limped into the tavern's main room, where Clothilde was busy setting out Gaston's breakfast. A large, round tray was balanced precariously in one of her hands, while the other hand carefully transferred several smaller dishes of eggs, bread, and porridge from the tray to the table. She gasped when she caught sight of Adam coming down the stairs. "You shouldn't be on your feet!" she admonished him, with almost motherly concern.

She thrust the tray unceremoniously into Gaston's hands before hastening to Adam's side. "Wha - _hey_!" Gaston sputtered, narrowly avoiding spilling his meal onto his lap.

Whatever grudge Clothilde had been holding against Adam appeared to be forgotten as she gently took his elbow and led him over to a seat at the nearest table. Then she dragged another chair, this one outfitted with a small stack of cushions, over to him. "Is that all right?" she fretted as she helped Adam to prop up his injured leg. "I can grab another pillow from upstairs if you think it will help."

"Uh, no, this is fine," Adam replied.

"Are you sure?"

"He said it's fine!" Gaston snapped, causing both Adam and Clothilde to jump. "For the love of me, it's just a little scratch!"

"I'm fine, really," Adam assured her quietly, his brow furrowing as she continued to fuss over the arrangement of the cushions. W_hat is going on_? It crossed his mind that maybe this wasn't Clothilde at all - maybe she had switched shifts (_and dresses too?_ a little voice in his head surmised doubtfully) with one of her sisters. "Er, Clothilde ..?" he said uncertainly.

"Yes, Étienne?" she responded, raising her eyes to his and smiling expectantly.

_So much for that theory_. Adam shook his head in bemusement. "Um ... thanks."

Things only got stranger from there. While Clothilde was off fetching Adam some breakfast, Jérôme arrived - with an entourage.

Jérôme's companions huddled behind him as he peeked around the edge of the tavern door. "Are you sure he's in there?" one of them asked.

"Move your head, I can't see anything!" another piped up.

"Yes, he's there!" Jérôme exclaimed. "I see him!" That announcement set off a scuffle as more than a dozen people tried to jockey their way through the door all at once.

Gaston leaned back in his chair and smiled knowingly. "Please, _please_, one at a time. There's plenty of me to go a..." - his jaw dropped as the group thundered right past him without so much as a glance his way - "...round."

In the blink of an eye, Adam went from sitting alone to being the center of the crowd. Men, women, and children - none of whom were familiar to him - pressed in on him from all sides, and Adam breathed a sigh of relief when Jérôme finally managed to push his way to the front.

"Jérôme, what is all this?" he asked.

"I told these guys about what happened yesterday, but they didn't believe me. So I said they should come and see you for themselves," Jérôme replied.

"Look at his leg!" one wide-eyed young woman whispered excitedly. "It's just like he said!"

"So it's true then!" her friend said. "About the wolves and everything! Just how big _were_ they?"

"They were enormous!" Jérôme exclaimed, before Adam could even open his mouth to respond. He threw his arms out wide to illustrate his point. "The biggest one had to be at least two hundred - no, _three_ hundred livres!"

"I don't know if he was quite _that_ big," Adam demurred, though he found himself smiling at Jérôme's enthusiasm in spite of himself.

"Did he have a long, ugly snout?" shouted a man at the back of the crowd.

"Hideously ugly!" Jérôme confirmed gleefully. "With sharp, cruel fangs to boot!" He curled his index fingers in front of his grinning mouth and snarled playfully at a little girl. She squealed in delight before burying her face in her mother's skirt. Meanwhile, Gaston glowered in stony silence as his fellow villagers continued to pepper Adam with breathless questions about the attack. Every other word Adam uttered - when he was actually permitted to get a word in edgewise - was punctuated by gasps of horror or exuberant cheers from his newfound friends, the circle of which only seemed to grow larger as the morning wore on.

"You should have seen it, Gaston," M. Farine effused some time later. He had come by to bring Adam a pie that his wife had baked as a token of her appreciation. "It was just like something you would have done."

Gaston seized on M. Farine's words of praise like - _well_, like a wolf pouncing on its prey. "But of course we all know that if _I_ had been there, those wolves never would have gotten away," he boasted, loudly enough for the entire tavern to hear him. His lip curled into a little sneer as he looked down at Adam out of the corner of his eye. "I guess it just goes to show, it takes a _real_ man to finish the job. It's like that time I was out in the forest tracking elk, and the biggest bear I'd ever seen suddenly came charging out of the trees. I only had a split-second to react before he tore me to pieces, but did I panic? _No_! I came home that day with my elk _and_ a brand new rug for the tavern," he said, pointing with pride to the large bearskin lying in front of the fireplace. "That bear thought he had me, but I made sure that the last thing he ever saw was the business end of my rifle."

"But Étienne didn't _have_ a rifle!" M. Farine interjected, gesturing plaintively to Adam. "All he had was a mop, and he _still_ managed to fight off all three of those wolves. I've never seen anything so daring in all my years!"

Gaston snorted derisively. "That's not daring, that's just stupid." But no one heard him over the renewed round of cheers for Adam's bravery.

Gaston, it seemed, was the only person in the village who _wasn't_ interested in rehashing every gory detail of Adam's death-defying misadventures. In fact, despite the increase in business it had brought to the tavern, he had been downright furious to hear about what had happened at the mill. Whether he was belaboring the fact that Adam had deserted the tavern (it was no use pointing out that Clothilde had still been there to keep an eye on things), bemoaning the doctor's orders that Adam abstain from manual labor ("Don't expect me to pay you to sit around all day," he had grumbled), or berating Adam for breaking his mop (the costs for a new one, were, evidently, being deducted directly from Adam's already measly salary), he didn't miss a single opportunity to express his displeasure.

But beneath it all, Adam sensed that Gaston's true reason for being angry with him had little to do with his abrupt disappearance, or his inability to work, or the damaged cleaning supplies. With every visitor who came to pat Adam on the back, Gaston's mood seemed to become more and more sour. It was obvious that Adam's status as a newly-minted town hero was not sitting well with him.

_It's not as if I _asked_ for any of this_, Adam wanted to remind him. To the contrary, he had been trying his very best _not _to be noticed by anyone since he had gone on the run. Although, if he was honest with himself, a tiny part of him _was_ enjoying the attention - just a little bit. To his surprise, the admiration of the villagers actually felt kind of ... _nice_. It wasn't like the empty flattery he was used to fielding from the sycophants who normally frequented his social circles. The respect of the villagers was genuine, and it was _deserved_. They weren't being nice to him simply because of who he was; for a change, he had actually done something worthy of the praise being heaped on him, and it was more gratifying than he ever would have expected it to be.

And if Adam harbored any lingering misgivings about the attention, most of them were dispelled by a visit from one admirer in particular. "Belle!" Gaston exclaimed, flashing what was probably his first genuine grin of the morning as she wandered, with an expression full of wonder, into the busy tavern. "What a surprise to see you in here! Do you need a drink? I can send Clothilde to get you something ... er, as soon as I can find her. Why don't you come have a look at my trophies in the meantime?"

"Oh." Belle froze in place like a child caught sneaking sweets. Her eyes darted awkwardly from Gaston over to Adam and then back to Gaston. "No ... but thank you, Gaston. I actually came by to see Étienne."

"I see." Gaston's lips remained frozen in a smile, but something hardened in his icy blue eyes. "Well, he's right there," he replied, with a careless flick of his wrist. "As you can see." The uncharacteristic petulance in his voice was hard to miss. He stomped away to his armchair near the fireplace, and the fall of his heavy boots caused the floorboards to reverberate with each step.

Belle's eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch as she watched him storm off. Then she blinked, shook her head, and hurried over to Adam's table. "How is your shoulder?" Adam asked as she took the seat across from him and set her basket on the floor.

"Much better today," Belle said. "The bruising still looks pretty bad, but it hurts a lot less. How is your leg?" she asked, gesturing toward Adam's bandaged limb.

"It feels all right," Adam replied, giving his leg a little bounce atop the cushions. "M. Sentirbien came by a little while ago to change the dressings. It still looks ... ugly ... and I'll probably end up with some scars, but he says they may actually help me impress a nice girl one day." He gave her a crooked smile, and Belle laughed before ducking her head, almost shyly. She tugged a little on the sleeve of her blouse before looking back up at him, and it dawned on Adam that she hadn't come solely to check up on his injuries. At the same time, he was acutely aware of Gaston watching them from across the room. Gaston had been studying the same spot on the wall since Belle had sat down, but there was an emptiness in his gaze that suggested that his attention actually lay elsewhere. "So, er, what did you want to see me about?" Adam asked quietly.

Belle's cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. She reached into her basket and retrieved a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, which she placed on the table between them. "I wanted to bring you this." Adam looked at her questioningly. "I know I thanked you yesterday, but I just wanted you to know that I really appreciate what you did."

"This ... is for _me_?" Adam asked in surprise. Belle nodded, and he reached hesitantly for the package. "Should I open it now?"

"Well, you don't have to." Belle's gaze flickered uneasily in Gaston's direction; apparently she, too, had noticed that they were being watched.

"No, no, I'll open it now," Adam said, with a touch of defiance. Gaston and his fragile ego could hang it. He tugged at the string holding the wrappings together, and the paper fell away to reveal some sort of knitted object. He lifted the object, and it unfurled in his hands into a long, irregular length of wool. _Que diable ... ? _

"It's a scarf," Belle whispered in a rush, turning an even deeper shade of pink.

"Obviously," Adam agreed, without missing a beat.

"I made it last night."

"I ... you made this? For _me_?" Adam asked in amazement.

"I stayed up all night working on it, so that I could finish it by morning. I know it isn't the prettiest scarf. I tried to follow the instructions, but ...I'm not very good at knitting, to be honest."

_That's an understatement_, Adam thought. Nevertheless, he was touched by the gesture. The thought that Belle had foregone sleep just to make this for him stirred something within him that he didn't quite understand. It wasn't like the euphoric thrill of a risky wager suddenly paying off, or the pleasant, languid feeling of succumbing to a boozy oblivion, but it was somewhere in between the two. It felt good, and he had the strangest sense as he turned the scarf over in his hands that he had gained something more valuable than just an ugly, misshapen piece of winter wear.

"You said that you were robbed," Belle hurried on, mistaking his silence for contempt. "And I thought that since the thieves took all of your things, you probably didn't have much in the way of warm clothing - or, any clothing, really. And winter is coming, and I don't know if you'll even still be here by then, but it gets very cold, so ... -"

"Thank you." Adam's hand shot out to cover hers, as if that could somehow stop her absurdly apologetic rambling. They both looked down in surprise, and Adam quickly withdrew his hand. He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said again. "No one has ever done anything like this for me before." That was actually true, he realized with a start. He had been given plenty of gifts before, of course - and most of them had been infinitely more extravagant than this one. But he doubted that any of them had been given in a spirit of such thoughtfulness and generosity. Most often, if not always, they had been given out of obligation, or with the expectation that they would somehow be repaid in the future. "And you're right, I don't have anything like this. I will treasure it."

"Really?" Belle beamed at him, and it felt like the sun had broken through the dusty tavern windows. A warmth spread through him at her smile, starting in his chest and making its way to the tips of his fingers and toes before finally reaching his face. Suddenly, he was seized by a desire to reciprocate her gesture - to do something for _her_. But he couldn't afford flowers, or chocolates, or any of the usual things he gave to women - and he doubted that any of those things would have impressed Belle much anyway. And then, before he had time to think it through any further, he blurted, "Iwanttoreplaceyourbook."

"I - _what_?"

"Your book - or, your friend's book, rather," Adam repeated, more slowly this time. "The one that was ruined. I'm guessing you never got to finish your portrait session with Mme. Farine. So let me replace it for you. It was my fault it got ruined anyway."

"Oh." Belle made a pained face. "That's very kind of you, Étienne. But I couldn't possibly ask you to do that, not after everything that's already happened to you. Besides, it wasn't even _really_ your fault," she admitted. "I should have been paying more attention to where I was going."

"And I shouldn't have just barged out the door without bothering to see who or what was on the other side," Adam countered. "It was at least _half_ my fault. So let me pay for half then." Belle opened her mouth to protest again, but he forged on before she could say no. "You're not asking, I'm offering."

Belle bit her lip uncertainly, and Adam was sure she was about to argue further, but then something in her expression softened unexpectedly. "All right," she agreed. "We'll split it. If you're _sure_, that is."

"I'm sure," Adam insisted. "I'm not certain _when_ exactly I'll be able to do it, but I promise I will. You'll have a new copy of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ as soon as I can manage it."

"Thank you," Belle replied. "That's really very - _wait._" She sat up straight and gave him a long, searching look. "How did you know it was _A Midsummer Night's Dream_?"

"I read it off the cover when I ..." Adam broke off, his eyes widening as he realized that he was about to broach a subject that might still be a bit sore. But he wasn't quick enough to lie his way out of it, and so he continued, reluctantly, with the truth. "When I, uh, when I was in your house ...," he finished lamely. He rubbed the back of his neck and shot her an apologetic look.

Disbelief flashed across Belle's face. "You can _read_?"

Adam bristled at her incredulous tone. "Of course I can read!" he exclaimed, causing the few people in the tavern who weren't already watching them to look their way curiously. "I'm not _stupid_," he hissed, leaning across the table.

"I know you aren't!" Belle assured him quickly, looking somewhat taken aback by his outburst. "I didn't mean to suggest that you are. It's just that, well, most people around here _can't_ read."

Adam sat back and crossed his arms. "Well it isn't my fault that you're surrounded by a bunch of illiterate fools," he grumbled, feeling only slightly mollified.

"They _aren't_ fools," Belle said. She kept her voice low, but there was a noticeable sharpness to it. "And it isn't their fault that they can't read - well, it isn't _all_ their fault. Most of them never had the opportunity to learn."

Adam frowned. "Your village has a school, doesn't it?"

"Of course it does," Belle replied. "But very few children are fortunate enough to attend it for very long. Most of them leave once they're old enough to do more useful things, like sow the fields, or tend to the animals, or care for their siblings." There was more than a trace of bitterness in the way she said the word "useful." "If they learn to read and write their own names, their parents consider that good enough."

"No wonder everyone around here thinks Gaston is so great," Adam muttered. "They don't know any more than he does."

Belle sighed. "It's not just _here_. It's been like that in almost every village I've lived in since I was small. It must be nice to live somewhere where reading isn't considered a waste of time."

"Hmmm," Adam murmured noncommittally, but she continued to look at him as if she expected him to say more. "Uh, yeah, I guess it must be?" he added with a shrug.

"Well don't you _know_?" Belle asked pointedly.

"Why would I ..." And that was when Adam realized that he had made a mistake - just not the one he _thought_ he had made. All of the furtive remarks he had overheard the townspeople making behind Belle's back suddenly made sense: Belle stuck out like a sore thumb among her peers, and it wasn't just because she _liked_ to read, but because she _could_. This ability marked her as different from the rest of them, and, Adam now realized, it marked him as different as well. The long, boring childhood afternoons that he had spent glued to a desk while his tutors drilled him on his letters were not the norm for the average citizenry.

Fortunately for him, he was saved from having to concoct some hasty explanation by Clothilde. "_Bonjour_, Belle!" she chirped, appearing alongside the table. "Are you staying for breakfast?"

"_Bonjour_, Clothilde," Belle replied cheerfully. "And no, I'm afraid I'm not. Actually," she continued, reaching for the basket on the floor, "I should be going. I still have some chores to finish. I just stopped by to have a word with Étienne."

"Belle!" Gaston called out as she got to her feet. "You're not leaving already, are you?" He swung his legs down from the armrest of his chair and rose from the seat.

"I've got to go!" Belle gasped, her eyes darting quickly toward the exit. "Goodbye!" And with that, she was gone.

Clothilde shook her head as Belle disappeared into the crowd. "Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with that girl," she sighed.

"There's _nothing_ wrong with her," Adam retorted, with more vehemence than he had intended.

Clothilde lifted an eyebrow. "So are you two friends?" Adam didn't respond, and, eventually, Clothilde shrugged a shoulder before flouncing off to greet another group of villagers who had just arrived.

But her question lingered in Adam's thoughts long after she left him. Are_ Belle and I friends_? he wondered. He ran a thumb absently over the edge of the lumpy scarf in his hands. The events of the last twenty-four hours had certainly gone a long way toward helping them bridge their differences. They had risked their lives for each other, which was more than he would have expected of any of the people he _had_ called his friends, back when there had actually been something to gain by earning his favor. He found himself warming to her company despite their initially rocky relationship, and if the fact that she had sought him out that morning said anything, it was that she felt the same. But did that qualify as _friendship_? He wasn't sure. But maybe - _just_ maybe - there was _something_ there that hadn't been there before.

* * *

_Thank you to TrudiRose for her advice on this chapter, and especially for helping me see to it that Gaston is suitably Gaston-y (Gastonian? Gastonish?). :)_


	13. Chapter 13

Several days passed before things in the tavern returned to normal - or at least as normal as they were ever likely to be again. Although Adam still received the occasional visitor or two, the number of people dropping by specifically to see him had dwindled as the initial excitement over the wolf attack wore off and the villagers got on with their lives.

That wasn't to say, however, that the townspeople had lost interest in him. As he came in one evening from stacking some firewood out back, he was greeted with a drunken chorus of "Étienne!" from the tavern's regulars. This was followed by a shrill whistle, and Adam looked over to see Stanley waving him over to a table in the middle of the floor.

Adam pulled the door shut behind him and wiped his palms on the legs of his breeches before making his way over to the table. "What can I do for you, Stanley?" he asked.

"You can sit down and drink this," Stanley ordered, sliding a full mug of ale across the table. He nodded toward the empty chair across from him while his companions made noises of encouragement.

Adam held up his hands. "I'd like to, guys, but I'm back on the job tonight."

There was a collective groan of disappointment from Stanley and his buddies. "Since when?"

"Since this afternoon," Adam replied. "The doctor said my leg is healed enough for me to pick back up with my usual activities."

"Well I guess that oughtta make Gaston happy."

"Yeah, I guess," Adam agreed with a shrug.

In fact, Gaston's mood had seemed to improve dramatically with the news that he was once again free to order Adam around. Which is why Adam was so perplexed when, after the usual morning crowd had vacated the tavern the next day, there was no long list of useless tasks demanding his attention.

"You don't need me to keep an eye on the tavern?" Adam asked.

"_I'm_ here, aren't I?" Gaston shot back.

"And there are no chicken coops to fix? No tools to return? No frivolous errands for me to run?"

"Friv-a-_what_?"

"Never mind," Adam sighed. "So there's _nothing_ that you need me to do?"

"Nope," said Gaston, crossing his arms and swinging his feet up onto the table.

"Well what am I supposed to do all afternoon?" Adam persisted.

Gaston shrugged, utterly unconcerned.

"So then can I leave the tavern?"

"Sure, what do I care?" Gaston grumbled. "Just as long as you don't take any of my stuff with you."

Adam cast a searching glance around the busy square as he stepped out into the unseasonably warm autumn afternoon. For once, he was entirely free to do as he pleased, and yet he had no idea what he actually wanted to do. The marketplace hummed with activity, but he didn't dare venture toward the stalls; his few days spent recovering from his injuries had already set him back far enough in the finances department. Finally, his aimless gaze zeroed in on the tavern's stable. _A-ha,_ he thought hopefully, before heading straight for the building. Étienne was standing in what had become his usual stall, munching on a bucket of oats that hung over the door. He lifted his head as Adam approached.

"Hey, boy," Adam said, reaching up to pat his horse's muzzle. "Are you as sick of being cooped up in here as I am?"

Fifteen minutes later, Adam and Étienne were galloping like two bats out of Hell across the little stone bridge that led out of the town. They veered away from the path that led along the river, making a beeline instead for the open fields that lay between the village and the mountains. Adam dug the balls of his feet against the stirrups and leaned forward in the saddle as Étienne opened up his gait. The noise of the village was quickly drowned out by the rhythmic pounding of the horse's hooves against the ground, and the wide green expanse stretched ahead of them, tranquil and inviting. As Molyneaux shrank further and further into the distance, it became easy to imagine that they were leaving the village behind them for good, and for a few blissful moments Adam actually allowed himself to entertain that happy fantasy as they raced across the fields.

They could have gone on like that for a good distance longer had the fields not ended abruptly in a steep bluff that dropped off into the river. Adam pushed his hair out of his eyes as Étienne pulled up short just shy of the precipice. He breathed in deeply and then let out a slow exhale as he surveyed their surroundings. The water below them was calmer than it was near the mill, reflecting near-perfect mirror images of the rugged mountains that seemed to stretch infinitely into the distance. The mountains here were smaller than the ones surrounding the castle, but they were also more colorful; their rocky faces were dotted with flashes of red and gold autumn foliage where the leaves had begun to turn. The view was at once calming and awe-inspiring. Adam knew that he had to have passed this way, or at least not far from it, on the evening he had first arrived in Molyneaux. At that time, however, he had been a bit too preoccupied to stop and admire the scenery. But after being stuck inside the small, dimly lit tavern for the past several days, he found himself viewing the picturesque countryside with a fresh pair of eyes.

Green, and red, and yellow, and orange stretched as far as the eye could see. And there, at the far edge of the clearing, was even a little flash of blue. Adam squinted at the out-of-place object - it wasn't a tree, or an animal, or anything else that he would have expected to find this far out from the village. It appeared to be a _person_ lounging beneath the trees. And then something in his brain clicked: it was _Belle_. He had turned his horse in her direction and started trotting toward her before he even realized what he was doing.

As he drew closer to Belle, she gave no indication that she had noticed his approach. She was lying on her stomach on a blanket, looking down at a book that was cradled in her hands. Adam smiled to himself and shook his head. "Belle!" he called, but her nose remained buried in the book. "_Belle_!" he tried again as he drew even with the trees. Étienne snorted loudly, and finally she jumped. He couldn't help but laugh at her sheepish expression when she looked up at him.

"Oh, _bonjour_, Étienne! What are _you_ doing out here?"

He patted Étienne's neck. "Things were slow at the tavern, and M. Sentibien finally gave me permission to do something other than sit, so I decided to take my horse out for some air. It's been a while since either of us was able to stretch his legs."

Belle got to her feet and reached a hand out tentatively. "Is he ...?"

"He's friendly," Adam assured her.

She grinned as she stretched up to scratch Étienne's ears, and the horse gave a little whinny of pleasure. "He's lovely. What is his name?"

"Étienne," Adam replied automatically.

Belle tilted her head and gave him a funny smile, and Adam winced inwardly when he suddenly realized the reason for it. "You named your horse after ... yourself?" Her voice trembled with barely suppressed laughter.

"Uh ... yeah, I guess I did," Adam lied, chuckling uncomfortably. "I, uh ... I wasn't a very creative child."

This time, Belle did laugh. "Well he's _beautiful_. I don't think I've ever seen such a fine-looking horse up close before. Where ever did you get him?"

Adam froze. _That_ was a topic of conversation that he was definitely not eager to pursue any further. "He was a gift from a friend," he replied curtly, hoping that that answer would be enough to satisfy Belle's curiosity.

Belle raised an eyebrow. "That's _some_ gift. I didn't realize you had friends in such high places."

_Merde ..._ Why couldn't he come up with a better explanation than that? Spending so much time around Gaston and his buddies had evidently caused Adam to let his guard down. Belle was so much more perceptive than the average village-dwelling idiot, and he reminded himself that he needed to be careful about how much he said to her. And yet at the same time, the thought of outright _lying_ to her didn't exactly sit well with him. So he finally opted to tell her the truth, or at least as much of the truth as he was willing to divulge: "Actually, it was my_ father's_ friend who gave him to me."

Belle's eyes widened curiously. "What does your father _do_?"

"Nothing," Adam muttered bitterly.

"Well it obviously can't be _nothing_, if he's friends with someone who was willing to gift you -"

"I said it was nothing!" Adam snapped. "Can't you just leave it at that?"

Belle blinked and took a few steps backward, her hand falling away from Étienne ears. "All right," she said quietly. "Forget I asked."

Adam's stomach sank at the look on her face, and he instantly wished that he could take his outburst back. "Belle, I'm sorry," he said desperately.

"No, _I'm_ sorry," she replied, somewhat coolly. "I should let you get back to your ride." She gathered her skirt and sat back down on the blanket, studiously avoiding his eyes.

Adam closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He knew that he was going to have to offer her a bit more than some hastily uttered apology if he was going to set things right between them. And he _wanted_ to set things right; he still wasn't certain if they were friends or not, but whatever they _were_ was a lot nicer than what they had _been_. It was, perhaps, the one bright spot in his otherwise glum situation. So he weighed his desire to smooth things over against his need for discretion, and, again, he decided to go with a highly edited version of the truth: "Here's the thing, Belle: I don't like to talk about my father. He and I, well, ... we don't really see eye to eye. On anything. That's why I left my home - or, at least, it's mostly why I left."

Belle looked up at him in surprise, her expression softening. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't realize. I didn't mean to force a subject that was so ... uncomfortable for you."

Adam waved a hand. "Don't apologize. You couldn't have known. _So_," he continued, in a blatant effort to change the subject, "what are you doing all the way out here anyway?"

"Reading," Belle replied, gesturing to the book she had left lying on the blanket.

Adam rolled his eyes in amusement. "I can see _that_. I meant, why are you reading in the middle of nowhere?"

Belle blushed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I was just trying to avoid interruptions."

"Oh," Adam said dumbly, feeling suddenly foolish. "I'm sorry. I didn't _mean_ to interrupt you."

"Oh _no_, I didn't mean _you_!" Belle exclaimed. "I was referring mostly to ... _Gaston_." She said his name in a whisper, as if she were afraid he might suddenly materialize out of the trees if she spoke it too loudly. "He has a knack for showing up just as I'm getting to the good part of a story."

Adam laughed. "No one ruins the moment like Gaston, huh?"

"No," Belle agreed with a wry smile. "But I wouldn't mind some company if _you_ wanted to stay and read with me for a while. I have snacks," she added, in a slightly singsong voice.

"What kind of snacks?" Adam asked, though the answer hardly mattered since he was already halfway out of the saddle. Belle passed a basket to him, and Adam rummaged around in it before helping himself a shiny red apple.

"So what are you reading?" he asked, trying to take a peek at the book as he settled himself onto the blanket. The apple crunched loudly as he bit into the crisp flesh.

"Romeo and Juliet - _what_?" Belle broke off when Adam made a face. "Don't tell me that's rotten _already_?"

Adam shook his head and swallowed quickly. "No, no, the apple is fine. It's just, _more_ Shakespeare?" he groaned.

"What's wrong with Shakespeare?" Belle demanded.

"The writing - it's just so _tedious_. It's all 'doth this' and 'wherefore art that.' How can you understand any of that nonsense?"

Belle frowned. "Well, it's not really _that_ hard, once you pick up the rhythm of the dialogue."

"The rhythm?" Adam repeated.

"_You_ know," Belle explained. "The inflections of the words, the lengths of the pauses, things like that."

Adam lifted an eyebrow. "And that makes it easier to understand?" he said doubtfully.

Belle laughed. "_Much_ easier. I used to think his writing sounded funny too, until my mother read some of it aloud to me. The rhythm makes all the difference. Shakespeare wrote _plays_, remember. Not novels. They weren't really made to be read; they were made to be performed. Here, why don't I show you what I mean?" she suggested, reaching for the book. "We'll start at the beginning, is that okay?"

Adam nodded, albeit with a trace of reluctance. When he thought about it, relaxing outside and reading with Belle - even if they had to read Shakespeare - was probably still better than sitting idly in the tavern and dodging dirty looks from Gaston. Belle smiled and cleared her throat as she flipped to the beginning of the book. With one last look at Adam to make sure he was listening, she began to read: "Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene ..."

Adam closed his eyes and tried his best to concentrate on the cadence of Belle's voice. It didn't take long for him to realize that Belle had been right; it _was_ somehow a bit easier to follow the story - and the flowery language - when it was being read aloud to him. It also didn't hurt that Belle had a nice voice; when she wasn't using it to yell at him, it took on an almost musical quality. And to his surprise, the story actually wasn't that bad. Sometimes, to his even _greater_ surprise, it was even funny.

"Did Mercutio just say what I _think_ he said?" Adam interrupted incredulously at one point, after nearly choking on a mouthful of water he had swigged from his canteen.

"What do you think he said?" Belle inquired innocently, but there was a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes as she looked up from the book.

An awkward silence passed between them during which Adam wasn't quite sure if she was waiting him to voice his suspicions aloud. He suspected, somehow, that she knew _exactly_ what he was asking and was just trying to goad him into saying something off-color. "Never mind ...," he replied finally, with a brisk shake of his head. "I probably just heard it wrong."

"Probably," Belle agreed placidly. But he could see her lips twitching in amusement as she returned her eyes to the page and resumed reading. Adam refrained from any further interruptions for the rest of the story, though every now and then he was almost certain that he caught Belle sneaking glances at him as she read a particularly funny line or turn of phrase, as if trying to gauge his reaction.

Adam wasn't sure for exactly how long they sat like that, but the air around them had grown noticeably cooler by the time they finished the story. "... For never was a story of more woe, than this of Juliet and her Romeo." Belle shut the book gently and hugged it to her chest, closing her eyes and sighing happily. Then she turned to look at Adam, who by this point had sprawled out in the grass next to her, with his arms folded under his head. "So?" she prompted. "What did you think?"

Adam lifted himself up onto his elbows as he thought about this question. "I didn't expect it to end like _that_," he finally said.

"Like what?" Belle asked.

"Well," Adam said slowly, "I thought it was supposed to be a love story. But then Romeo and Juliet both wound up dead at the end. That's not very romantic, is it?"

"Well, it's a _tragic_ romance," said Belle. "They loved each other so much, that each would rather die than face the idea of living without the other."

"But that's not love, it's - it's just _crazy_! Not to mention, they got married after knowing each other for - what was it, a couple of _hours_? Who does that?"

"It was love at first sight," Belle argued.

Adam scoffed. "There's no such thing."

"You don't think so?"

"Do _you_?"

Belle shrugged. "I can't prove that there isn't."

Adam turned onto his side as he mulled over the story. "The sword fights _were_ pretty good," he admitted, cracking a smile in Belle's direction. "I'll bet they'd be great to see on the stage. Maybe you could read it to me again sometime?"

"Or _you _could read it to _me_," Belle suggested.

"_Oh_ no," Adam said. "If I'm reading, _I'm_ picking the book. And it _won't_ be Shakespeare."

"All right," Belle agreed easily. "Then next time, you pick."

Adam smiled. "All right then. It's a deal."

A shadow passed over them just then, and a sudden gust of wind ruffled the edge of the blanket. As Belle and Adam both dove to grab it, Belle looked skyward. "Look," she said, pointing to a mass of grey clouds rolling in from the mountains. "I think a storm is coming in." And with that, a low rumble of thunder echoed ominously across the fields.

"I think you're right," Adam said. "I guess story time is over."

While Belle hurried to fold up the blanket, Adam jogged off to retrieve his horse, who he had let loose to graze on some grass nearby. Looking over Étienne's back, he could just make out Belle's cottage, which was a barely visible speck in the distance. He turned back to look at the clouds, which had advanced on them significantly in barely more than a minute. He frowned. Belle would never make it back on foot before getting caught in the storm.

"Why don't you ride with us," he suggested as he led Étienne back to the trees. "The storm will hit any minute, and Étienne can get you home faster than if you walk."

"Are you sure he can carry us both?" she asked, looping her basket over one arm.

"Well, he's never _actually_ carried more than one person at once," Adam admitted. "But there's a first time for everything." When Belle shot him a look that indicated she was plainly unamused by his glib response, he added, "He's a strong horse, and you'll add hardly anything. At worst, it will just slow him down a little."

Belle looked once more at the clouds before nodding nervously. "All right, if you're sure."

"I'm sure," Adam said, extending a hand to her. "Here, let me help ..." But before he could even finish the sentence, she had placed a foot into the stirrup and gracefully swung herself up and into the saddle. "... you."

Belle smiled down at him before holding her own hand out to _him_, and for a moment Adam was struck by just how regal she looked, sitting tall and straight atop his horse. He blinked and let out quick breath. Then, placing one hand on the rear of the saddle and the other hand in Belle's, he hoisted himself onto Étienne's back. Immediately, he became aware of just how close Belle was to him. Her back was pressed flush against his chest, so that he could feel her rib cage shudder with every breath she breathed in. Her head rested in the space just below his chin, so that her soft hair tickled the sensitive skin of his neck. The arrangement felt unexpectedly intimate, and though Adam was far from a prude, he could feel his face growing inexplicably and uncomfortably hot. He tried to scoot back a little in the saddle to give them each some space, but found that he had nowhere to go.

"Excuse -," Adam began, his voice cracking noticeably on the second syllable. He coughed and tried again: "Excuse me," he said, snaking a tentative hand past Belle's waist to reach for the reins, and bringing the two of them into even closer proximity in the process. "I just need to ..."

"Oh!" Belle gasped, jumping a little in her seat. Adam could feel her entire body tense against him as her hand darted out toward Étienne's bridle. "Of course. Yes. You should take these." She turned slightly in the saddle to hand the reins off to him, and her fingers gently grazed his as he took the reins from her. A trail of goosebumps raced, quicker than lightning, up Adam's arm. _The storm_, a voice in his head swore adamantly, _it's just the storm. _

Belle braced her hands against the pommel as Adam turned Étienne in the direction of her cottage. "Are you, um, ready?" he asked. Belle's head gave a quick jerk of assent. "All right then, hold on tight." He gave Étienne a little kick in the side, and the horse broke into a brisk canter that wasted little time in quickening into a full-out gallop. The sudden change in momentum threw Belle backward against Adam, and Adam's free hand shot out to grab her waist and prevent them both from losing their balance. "I've got you!" he shouted in her ear.

The fields sped past in a blur of color as they raced against the storm. Adam ventured a quick look over his shoulder, and he was mildly relieved to see that they had already put some distance between themselves and the clouds. If he was lucky, he'd have just enough time to leave Belle at her house and make it back to the tavern before the storm reached the village.

Adam pulled up on the reins as they approached the cottage, and Étienne slowed to a trot before finally coming to a stop at the base of the steps. It was only then that Adam realized that his left hand was still resting on Belle's hip, and he yanked it away as quickly as if it had been pricked on a thorn. He couldn't tell whether Belle noticed that it had been there or not. Then, before he - or she - had time to dwell on the matter any further, he slid from the saddle and reached up to help Belle down.

This time, she accepted his assistance with a grateful, if slightly flustered, smile. Her face looked as flushed as his felt, and her hair was slightly mussed from the ride, but her hand was steady as she placed it in his. "Thank you for the ride home, Étienne," she said as her feet touched the ground.

"You're welcome," Adam replied.

"I was talking to _him_," Belle clarified, turning to pat Adam's horse on the neck.

"Oh - I -," Adam stammered, but broke off when Belle looked over her shoulder with a teasing grin.

"And thank _you_, Étienne, for making sure I got home safely."

Adam's face relaxed into a smile. "It was nothing. Thank you for sharing your books - and snacks - with me."

"It was my pleasure," Belle said warmly. "Maybe ... we could do it again sometime?"

"How about tomorrow?" Adam suggested, prompting a laugh from Belle.

"Are you sure Gaston won't need you?"

"I ... don't think he'll miss me. And I'm tired of being cooped up in that stupid tavern anyway."

"All right. Then I'll see you tomorrow. Now _go_," Belle urged, shooing him toward his horse. "The storm won't hold off for much longer."

"All right, all right, I'm going," Adam replied as he climbed back into the saddle. "I'll see you tomorrow!" he called, giving Belle a little wave as he watched her enter the house. Then, reaching forward to give Étienne a quick pat, he said, "Let's go, boy."

Another night of waiting on Gaston's friends awaited him, but Adam realized as he rode off in the direction of the village that he didn't dread the thought of it nearly as much as he did on most evenings. Now that he had something more pleasant to look forward to, it made the _un_pleasant parts of his day seem almost bearable. _Almost_.

* * *

_Thank you to TrudiRose for beta-ing lucky chapter 13 (cue spooky music)! _

_The quotes from _Romeo and Juliet _are not my mine - they're the work of some guy named William Shakespeare. I've heard he's pretty good._


	14. Chapter 14

The storm had moved on by the next morning, and unfortunately so had the unseasonable mid-autumn warmth to which the residents of Molyneaux had grown so accustomed. Belle watched her warm breath turn to wisps of cloud in the chilly air as she tended to the goats, and she could feel her fingers stiffening from the cold as they tugged the corners of her apron up into a little makeshift pocket from which to feed the chickens. The birds clucked noisily as they darted around her feet, greedily gobbling up the little morsels of grain and seed that she scattered on the ground. She hummed to herself as she emptied the pocket, allowing her thoughts to turn, as they had been doing so frequently since the previous afternoon, to her unlikely - and unexpectedly mysterious - new friend.

Étienne was hiding something, she was certain of it. And she was going to figure out what it was. It seemed pretty clear that whatever secret he was keeping had to have something to do with his life before he had arrived in the village, because any time the subject of his past came up, he grew noticeably irritable and immediately tried to change the subject. But what could it be? Belle's mind raced with theories. What if the robbery at the inn hadn't been a random crime? What if Étienne had been tasked with delivering something important - an object, or a letter - and the thieves had been sent to intercept it? This seemed plausible. Étienne appeared to be relatively well-educated, and his horse ... well, you didn't use a horse like _that_ to pull farm equipment, that was for sure.

And what did it mean that he had received a horse of such fine pedigree as a _gift_? Either Étienne's father was very well-connected, or someone had owed him a very large favor. But why would that make Étienne so uncomfortable? She could understand if he preferred not to flaunt his family's influence, but she suspected that there was actually more to the story than that. Could it be possible that his father was actually involved in something _illegal_, and Étienne was ashamed to admit it? Perhaps his father was even in _prison_. That could explain why Étienne was so reluctant to talk about him, and why their relationship was so strained. How had Étienne put it, exactly? _We don't really see eye to eye. On anything_.

Belle smirked to herself. Criminal or not, if Étienne's father was anything like he was, then it didn't surprise her that the two of them had clashed. Étienne might be one of the most hardheaded men she had ever met. And yet, as her smirk softened into something a bit kinder, she conceded that he could also be quite sweet ... when he wanted to be. After all, he could have left her to walk home in the rain, but he had insisted on seeing her safely back to the house even though the delay meant that _he_ might get caught in the storm. And there had been something endearing about the way he got so flustered when they had shared his horse - not that he had been the _only_ one whose composure had been tested by that little adventure. Warmth flooded Belle's face as she recalled the flutter of his breath in her hair and the firm, protective press of his hand on her waist. It was clear to her now that the beneath brusque, aloof facade that he presented to the world, Étienne had the capacity to be surprisingly gentle and caring. _I wonder why I didn't see it there before?_

Belle jumped as the sudden squeak of wagon wheels and the distinct _clip clop_ of hooves on the dirt path yanked her from her daydreams. She held a cool hand up to each of her cheeks to try to fade the lingering burn before turning to see who was approaching, and she was both surprised and delighted to see her father and Philippe coming up the road.

"Papa!" Belle cried, dropping the edge of her apron and allowing the rest of the feed to fall to the ground. The chickens squawked and scrambled out of her way as she ran to meet the cart. As she drew nearer, she could see that her father was smiling giddily, as if he had good news that he couldn't wait a moment longer to share with someone. And that could mean only one thing. "How did the fair go?" she asked, trying to temper the excitement in her voice as she peeked into the cart for any glimpse of the blue ribbon. She helped him down from the seat, and they embraced tightly.

Maurice's smile widened even further as he pulled away, and Belle knew that her hunch had been right. "It was the best one yet! I have some wonderful news!"

Belle gasped and bounced on the balls of her feet. "So you did it? You _really_ did it? You won first prize?"

"_What_? Oh, _no_," Maurice laughed. "No, no. First prize went to some Swiss fellow. He built this ingenious machine that can send a message from one location to another along a set of electrically charged wires. Fascinating little device, just fascinating. I wish you could have seen it! Only works across the room at the moment, but just _imagine_ the possibilities ..."

Belle's smile dropped a fraction, and her brow furrowed. "But ... you said you had wonderful news ...?"

"Oh, I do!" Maurice insisted. "And it's even better than some silly blue ribbon. I've got a _contract_!"

"A ...a contract?" Belle repeated slowly.

"Yes! A count from Lyon liked my machine so much that he's commissioned me to build half a dozen of them for his estate! And I think your old man managed to negotiate a very good price for them too," he added with a sly wink. "It'll take some time to get them all built, of course. But he's willing to pay on half of the contract when I get the first three completed. And when it's _all _done, the money should be enough for us to make a new start, anywhere you want!"

It took a few moments for this news to sink in, but when it did, Belle reached forward and pulled her father into another fierce hug. "Papa, that's _wonderful_! Congratulations! See, I knew it was only a matter of time until someone saw you for the genius you are!"

"Well, I don't know about _genius_," Maurice demurred with a modest wave of his hand. "I do have to admit though, it _is_ one of my more clever inventions. But enough about me! How are you? Did anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

"Not really," Belle lied, smiling innocently at her father. She had decided several days earlier that she was _not_ going to tell him about the wolf attack. There was no sense in worrying him over something that was over and done with. Her injuries had been minor and quickly healed, but if her father found out that she had been in even the slightest danger while he was away, he might never leave her on her own again.

Maurice frowned and peered at her closely. "Nothing at all? Are you sure?"

_Does he know_? Belle wondered with alarm. How could he possibly? It wasn't as if he had to pass through the village in order to get home, so he wouldn't have had the opportunity to overhear any recent gossip - not that the attack was even as big a topic of conversation as it had been a few days ago. Could he read something in her face, or hear it in the tone of her voice? "I ... I think so?" Belle replied calmly, electing to take her chances and continue playing dumb.

Maurice studied her face for another moment or two before laughing it off with a shrug. "Ah, well. All right, then. You just seem ... _happier_ than usual."

Belle let out a little breath of relief. Was _that_ all? "Do I? It's probably just because I'm so happy that you're home. And that you did so well at the fair."

Maurice smiled. "Well, I'm happy to see you too, dear," he replied, taking her hands in his. His hands were cold, so cold she could feel it even with her own nearly numb fingertips, and she realized that he had probably been on the road since early that morning.

"_Papa_, your hands are like ice. Why don't you go on inside and warm up while I take care of Philippe?" Belle offered, giving her father a little nudge toward the house. "You deserve some rest after your long trip."

"Well, maybe just for a little bit," Maurice agreed with a yawn, before shuffling toward the steps. "But don't let me fall asleep - I need to get to work!"

"_Work_?" Belle echoed in disbelief. "But you just got home!"

"And I've got a big contract to fulfill!" Maurice exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with glee. "Half a dozen wood-chopping machines aren't going to just build _themselves_, you know. Besides, the sooner I finish them, the sooner our new life can officially begin!"

Belle smiled fondly and shook her head as she watched her father disappear into the house. Then she turned to the cart. "What am I going to do with him, Philippe?" she sighed, as she absently stroked her horse's muzzle. Philippe said nothing, but Belle imagined that the slightly exasperated sounding snort he offered in response was his way of telling her that he had asked himself the same question.

* * *

Adam pulled his borrowed cloak more tightly around his shoulders and quickened his pace in an effort to warm himself up as he made his way along the path to Belle's house. Much to his dismay, the weather had turned colder - _much_ colder - overnight. Luckily, Camille had been kind enough to search through some of Gaston's old clothing that morning in the hopes of finding some more seasonally appropriate attire for him. She had found the old cloak hidden away in Gaston's suite, along with a few other items that would probably prove handy in the coming weeks. It had a slightly musty smell to it from the years spent crammed at the bottom of a trunk, and the fabric was so coarse that Adam suspected he'd be itching for days even after he took it off. But as a cold gust of wind whipped around its hem, he reminded himself that he no longer had the luxury of being picky; not unless he wanted to freeze to death before he managed to make it out of town.

_Could my luck possibly get any worse?_ he wondered, as piles of dry leaves crunched loudly under his feet. The turn in the weather was inevitable, perhaps even overdue. But he had still been holding out hope that they might get a longer reprieve. He didn't want to think about what would happen when winter came. The weather would only grow colder, and with the cold would come snow - _lots_ of snow. If he didn't find a way to get out of Molyneaux before it came, he might be stuck in the village until spring. The thought was almost enough to make him cry.

As he crested the little hill in the path and Belle's house came into view, there was a sudden, earthshaking _BOOM!_ Before he knew what was happening, Adam was launched into the air, and he hit the ground so hard that the wind was knocked out of him. He lay face down in the dirt, dazed, for several seconds. When he was finally able to take in a few short, gasping breaths, his nostrils filled with a noxious, acrid smell that nearly made him gag. And when he lifted his head to search for the source of the unpleasant aroma, his mouth immediately went dry with horror.

"_Belle_!" he choked, scrambling to his feet. The doors of the cottage's cellar - which had been closed only moments ago, he was certain of it - had been blown wide open, and a heavy cloud of black smoke billowed out from the depths below. "No!" He sprinted toward the house, half desperate to reach it and half dreading what he would find when he did. His vision blurred with tears as he charged into the thick of it and the smoke stung his eyes, forcing him to take a few steps backward before he could reach the doors. "Belle?" he called out, his voice sounding weak and raspy as he waved a hand in front of his face to try to clear the air. "Belle!" he tried again. "Are you in there? Answer me!"

There was a cough, and as Adam squinted through the thick haze, he could just make out a shadowy silhouette staggering up the cellar steps. "Belle, thank God ...," he said, taking a step toward her. But as the person drew nearer, Adam hesitated. This was _not _Belle. This person was at least a head shorter than Belle, with a sturdier build and a heavy, somewhat wobbly gait.

"Papa?" Belle's voice finally rang out from somewhere above, and Adam's legs went weak with relief.

"I'm all right!" the stranger answered hoarsely. "Nothing to worry about! It's just a minor setback, that's all!"

The light _tap-tap-tap_ of hurried footsteps sounded down the front steps. "Is everything all right out he- oh! Hello, Étienne!" Belle suddenly appeared at Adam's side, looking a bit shaken, but otherwise perfectly unscathed. Her eyebrows knit together with concern as she cocked her head and looked him up and down. "What _happened_ to you?" she asked, reaching out to pick a dry leaf from his shoulder.

Adam looked down and saw that the front of his cloak was stained with dirt and grass, and a hole had been torn in one knee of his pants. "Oh," he said, examining the damage with dismay. "I, uh ... I tripped," he replied lamely.

"Oh dear, that was probably my fault," a third voice chimed in. Adam looked back up to see that an unfamiliar man had emerged from the smoke. "I'm so sorry about that," the man said, gesturing to Adam's cloak. "I had a little bit of a mishap with one of my machines. Must've gotten a bad batch of coal from Anton. Lucky thing I didn't use any of _that_ at the fair!" he chuckled cheerfully, before his laughter gave way to a fit of coughing. Belle rushed to his side with a look of worry.

"Are you sure you're all right, Papa?" she asked, while gently ushering him away from the cellar.

_Papa_? So _this_ must be the infamous Maurice Dupont, Adam realized, feeling his curiosity suddenly stir. He wasn't exactly sure what he had been expecting, but the short, balding, middle-aged man over whom Belle was now fussing was almost certainly not it. M. Dupont had a round, pleasant face with thick, graying eyebrows and a bushy white mustache whose ends had a suspiciously singed look to them. What was left of his snowy white hair was standing on end and dusted with soot, and an odd looking set of spectacles perched precariously on the crown of his head.

He didn't really look much like Belle. What he looked like was ... well, like a bit of a lunatic. A lunatic who, Adam realized with a start, was _talking_ to him. Adam blinked and gave his head a quick shake. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked if you were hurt, Monsieur ... euh ...," Belle's father trailed off and looked up at Adam quizzically. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but have we met? I don't recall ever seeing you around the village."

"Papa, this is Étienne," Belle interjected, saving Adam from having to explain himself. "He's from out of town, but he's staying over at the inn for a while."

"A visitor, eh? Well I suppose it's good to know that I'm not losing my mind then." Belle's father smiled and stuck out a hand. "In that case, it's very nice to meet you, Étienne."

Adam shot a hesitant glance at Belle, who met his eyes and gave him a small, expectant smile. "Likewise, sir," he responded, trying not to outwardly cringe as he grasped the man's soot-covered hand.

"Oh, now, there's no need to be so formal. Maurice will do just fine. So what brings you to Molyneaux, Étienne? Do you have business in the village?"

"Oh ... no," Adam replied. "I'm just passing through."

"Is that so? Where are you heading?"

_Not you too_, Adam thought. Why was everyone in this village so interested in his personal life? "I'm actually on my way to join family outside of France, but I've been ... delayed here ... for a bit."

"Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I wouldn't delay for too much longer if you can help it. I've just come from Autrèche, and I can tell you the conditions won't be good for travel for very much longer. A few weeks, at most."

"I know," Adam sighed.

Maurice offered him a sympathetic smile. "Well, I'm sure you didn't come by to ask me for a weather report. Is there something I can help you with, or were you just passing by?"

"Oh." Adam's eyes slid over to Belle. "Well, actually - that is, I -"

"Actually, _I_ invited him, Papa," Belle said. Her cheeks went slightly pink, although it could have just been a reaction to the cold. "We were planning to go inside and read for a while, if that's all right?"

"Oh?" Maurice inquired politely. Then, suddenly, his eyebrows shot up so high that his forehead seemed to disappear. "_Oooh_. Well ... why didn't you say so? Don't mind me then, you two go right on inside," he said, making a shooing motion toward the steps. "If you need anything, you know where to find me." He jerked a thumb toward the cellar, which finally looked to be nearly free of smoke. "You, er, know where the books are, right?"

"I think we can find them," Belle replied evenly, as she held the front door open for Adam and motioned for him to go inside.

"All right, then. Well if you don't find any that you like, you know there are a few more in my bedroom. I still have all of your books from when you were little in a crate in there."

Belle followed Adam into the house. "Thank you, Papa, but I'm sure we'll find something," she called over her shoulder.

"I'm pretty sure that Mother Goose book that you liked so much is in there too! You know," Maurice went on, directing his next remarks to Adam, "when Belle was a baby, she used to make her mother read 'Puss in Boots' to her every night before she would go to sleep. Come to think of it, that's probably where she got the idea to try to dress our poor old cat up in her doll's clothes! I remember this one time ..."

"Thanks, Papa!" Belle cut him off, in a voice that was an octave or two higher than normal. And despite his earlier dour mood, Adam couldn't help himself - he laughed out loud as she all but slammed the door shut and then collapsed against it with a sigh of relief. She shot him a halfhearted glare, which only made him laugh harder. Finally, a small, grudging smile crept over her lips, and she leaned her head back against the door in resignation.

"Well he seems nice," Adam remarked with a teasing grin.

Belle lifted her head and looked at him, her smile disappearing. "Do you really think so?"

"Sure." Adam shrugged. He didn't get why she looked so serious all of the sudden. "It must be nice to have a father who isn't constantly trying to ruin your life."

"I'm sure your father isn't _that_ bad," Belle said quietly.

"_Trust_ me," said Adam, "he is. You don't know how lucky you are."

Belle took a breath like she was about to say more, but then seemed to think better of it. Clearing her throat, she pushed away from the door. "Wait right here. I'm going to go get something to mend those pants for you," she said. She smiled gratefully at him before hurrying up the stairs. Adam watched her go, feeling a bit at a loss as to what had triggered the fleeting change in her mood. _Was it something I said_?

* * *

Cogsworth hovered uncertainly in the doorway of Prince Édouard's study. The door had been ajar when he arrived, and he had wondered for a moment whether he would find the study empty. But when he peeked into the room, the prince had been in there, bent over a map that had been spread out on his desk. He was wearing the same suit that he had been wearing the night before, only now his cravat and jacket were nowhere to be seen and his shirt was in desperate need of a good pressing.

Cogsworth ticked the seconds off in his head as he waited for the prince to acknowledge him, but when it became clear that his presence had not been noticed, he decided to speak up. "Ahem. The Duke and his family are preparing to leave, Your Highness."

When Prince Édouard finally raised his head, Cogsworth was alarmed to see that the purplish circles that had begun to develop around his eyes had grown noticeably darker overnight. "It's about time," the prince said with a long suffering sigh.

"Aren't you going to come down and see them off?" Cogsworth prodded gently, when the prince made no move to leave his desk.

"Must I?"

"It would be ... impolite ...not to. Particularly given the circumstances, what with the wedding disaster, and all of those ugly rumors -,"

"Rumors that _he _started!" Prince Édouard shot back, his voice rising dangerously.

"A-as you say," Cogsworth stammered. "However -,"

"You want to talk about being _impolite_? Where does that blustering _fils de pute_ get the gall to suggest that I _helped_ Adam to run off? As if this was all part of some conspiracy to weasel out of our agreement? Does he not understand that this situation reflects just as badly on me as it does on him? Worse, even!"

"Well of course the idea utterly preposterous," Cogsworth assured him. "Not to mention, completely unfounded."

"Of course it is," the prince agreed, seeming somewhat placated by Cogsworth's reassurances.

"But going _out of your way_ to snub him would only give fuel to the rumors, and we don't want the rest of our allies to start thinking that there could be any truth to them."

"I don't _give_ a damn what the Duke or anyone else thinks," Prince Édouard growled. "My son is _missing_, and my first priority is to bring him safely home. I can deal with the rest of them later." A bit of the fire seemed to go out of him then, and his shoulders sagged as he sank into his seat. "I take it we still have no leads on him?"

"Not even the slightest trace," said Cogsworth, shaking his head apologetically.

The prince sighed and dropped his head wearily into his hands. "I don't understand it. Adam couldn't have had more than a few hours' head start on the guards. And they followed his map to the letter. If they were even halfway competent at their jobs, they should have found _someone_ who has seen him by now. Unless ..." He swallowed. "If something has happened to him, I'll never ..." He broke off, unable to voice the rest of his thoughts.

Cogsworth had never been much of an optimist, but he felt that he needed to say _something_ to offer the prince some hope for a happy resolution. _What would __Lumière_ _do_? he wondered, trying his best to channel the castle's relentlessly cheerful maître d'. "Forgive me for saying so, Your Highness, but, well, if something unfortunate _had _happened to him, I think it's rather likely that someone would have found some ... _evidence_ ... of it by now," Cogsworth suggested timidly, all the while fighting the impulse to bring the palm of his hand to his face. He could practically hear Lumière's voice in his head: _Nice going_. "Have you considered the possibility that he's simply hiding out somewhere," he forged on, desperate to salvage the effort. "Or - or decided to change course, perhaps?"

Prince Édouard looked up suddenly, and Cogsworth thought he saw a hint of hope flicker across his features. "That's a good point, Cogsworth," he said slowly, his tired eyes narrowing in thought. "Yes, I suppose those are both possibilities. And if so, then that means that there's still a chance we can find Adam before he gets himself into something he can't get out of. But if you're right, we'll need to widen our search. Tell the guards I want as many men as we can spare out looking for him. And have them spread out to cover more ground. Offer a reward for information if you think it will help."

Cogsworth let out a breath. "Right away, Sire," he said with a nod. "And, er, what shall I tell the Duke?"

Prince Édouard groaned. "All right, all right. Tell them I'll be down in a few minutes."

* * *

_Thank you to TrudiRose for her help in beta-ing this chapter!_


	15. Chapter 15

Belle's bedroom was situated in a tiny but cozy room close to the top of the staircase. It was the smaller of the cottage's two bedrooms, but what it lacked in size it made up for in other comforts. Its pair of south- and west-facing windows allowed it to receive the better light while the sun was up, which made it an ideal spot for reading on the days when she needed a little extra peace and quiet. And the cottage's chimney passed behind one interior wall, providing a little extra warmth to the room during the cold winter months.

The sun that was presently streaming in through the two small windows cast little patterns of light onto the floor and onto the surface of the cream-colored coverlet that had been smoothed neatly over the bed. A hope chest, constructed from the same dark, unpolished wood as the bed frame, was positioned at the foot of the bed, and a simple matching night stand was wedged between the bed and the far wall. One small stack of books rested atop the night stand, next to a little pewter candle holder, while another, larger stack of books weighed down the lid of the hope chest.

Belle moved the books from the top of the hope chest to the bed, and then carefully lifted the lid, cringing a little as her gaze settled on the contents of the chest. _One of these days, I really need to sit down and sort through all of this_, she chided herself, before taking a breath and bravely diving headfirst into the abyss of old journals, childhood toys, and assorted mementos that the chest had accumulated over the years. She gently shifted a tattered rag doll from one side of the heap to the other, gathered up the remnants of the quilt that she had started five years earlier and never quite mustered the enthusiasm to finish, and finally spotted, at the very bottom of the chest, the thing that she was looking for: her sewing basket. Or, at least, she spotted the _handle_ of her sewing basket, sticking out from beneath a few rolls of yellowing paper. She reached out to give it a tug, but the little basket barely budged. "Come on," she groaned, wrapping both hands around the handle and tugging even harder. This time, the basket pulled free as various other odds and ends quickly caved in around the space it had just vacated. Belle set the basket on the floor next to her, slammed the lid down with a little huff of triumph, and then dusted off her dress as she climbed back to her feet.

After ducking briefly into in her father's bedroom to retrieve a spare pair of trousers, she hurried back down to the foyer. But as she rounded the bend in the stairway, she paused. Étienne was still standing at the bottom of the stairs, and in very nearly the exact spot where she had left him. He had removed his soiled cloak, which was now rolled up and tucked under one of his arms. His hands were jammed into his pockets, and his head was bowed so that he appeared to be quietly studying the tops of his boots. But the stiff, almost wary set of his shoulders told Belle that he was not nearly as at ease as he appeared at first glance, and she found herself recalling, with some guilt, the way that she had chased him out the door the last time he had been in the house. Could that be what _he_ was thinking about too? Barely two weeks had passed since that unpleasant encounter, but so much had changed in that short time that it was easy to forget that it had happened at all.

"Why don't you come over by the fire?" Belle said, resolving in that instant to put extra effort into making him feel more welcome. She smiled kindly and led him by the elbow over to the little sitting area. She took his cloak from him, and then set it down on the table along with her sewing basket. "Here," she said, holding her father's trousers out to him.

He accepted them with a look of polite bewilderment. "What are these for?" he asked, glancing uncertainly from the pants to Belle.

"To change into while we mend yours," she explained. "We can't very well patch up that tear in your pants while you're still _in_ them."

The tips of Étienne's ears went bright red. "You mean I have to take them _off_?"

"Well of course," Belle replied, tilting her head and fixing him with a bemused smile. "Haven't you ever had to mend clothing before?"

He hesitated for a beat before answering. "Of course I have."

"And you weren't _wearing_ the clothing while it was being mended, were you?" Belle prodded.

Her question was met with another brief silence as Étienne stared at the trousers in his hands. "I suppose not."

"Well there you go then. Here," Belle continued, turning her back to him. "I'll turn around while you change into them. Just let me know when you're done."

There was a sigh of dismay, followed by the jingle of a belt buckle, some rustling of fabric, and then a long series of grunts, groans, and muffled swear words that Belle pretended not to hear. And just when Belle was starting to worry about what her father might think if he walked in just then, Étienne finally muttered, "All right, I - I'm done."

Belle spun to face him - and then froze, completely unprepared for the sight that met her eyes. While she had not expected the pants to fit Étienne perfectly, she had vastly underestimated just how silly the image of him in her father's old trousers would be. The waistband was so loose that it would have easily slipped down Étienne's hips, had it not been bunched tightly in one of his fists. The fit was considerably more snug around the lean muscles of his upper legs, but the hem came to an end just above his knees, allowing his lower legs to peek out freely from what were, at least on her father, ankle-length pants. Belle's hand flew to her mouth with lightning speed, but it was still a split-second too slow to catch the giggle that escaped.

"You can't tell _anyone_ about this," Étienne said with a grimace. His tone was stern and commanding, but Belle could see genuine fear - and just enough insecurity to make her feel a bit bad for laughing - lurking in his eyes.

She pursed her lips and favored him with a sardonic smile. "Who would I tell?"

That answer seemed to sufficiently soothe his bruised ego, because the grimace relaxed. He let out a breath through his nose. "So what next?" he grumbled.

"Why don't you give those to me" - she took the torn pants from Étienne - "and have a seat right here." She patted the rocking chair with the faded red cushion, which Étienne settled into with a sheepish "thanks," before taking the seat next to him and pulling the sewing basket onto her lap.

He didn't say anything more, but she could feel him watching her as she rummaged through the basket and finally extracted two small scraps of fabric in different shades of brown. She held them both against Étienne's torn pants, hummed under her breath as she considered the hues, and then tossed the lighter piece of fabric back into the basket.

"This one is closer," she said, setting the darker cloth aside and reaching for a spool of matching thread. "It won't be perfect, but it should be presentable enough. As long as you aren't planning on wearing these to dinner with the king," she joked, trying to pry a laugh - or at least a smile - out of Étienne.

But what he responded with instead was a sudden, violent fit of coughing. Belle dropped the thread and reached over to rest a hand on his bare knee. "_Étienne!_" she exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

Étienne coughed several more times before managing to catch his breath. "I'm fine," he wheezed, looking up at her through watering eyes.

Belle's forehead creased with concern. "Are you sure? What happened?"

Étienne shook his head and straightened in his seat. "I'm fine," he repeated. "I think all the smoke from outside just got to me." He cleared his throat and smiled weakly, but she had the strangest sense that his eyes were purposefully avoiding hers.

"It _was_ pretty smoky out there," she conceded after a moment's hesitation. "I'm really sorry about all of that, by the way. Papa can get a little...carried away sometimes." As if to prove her point, a mighty _clang_, like metal crashing against metal, reverberated from somewhere below them and caused the floorboards to shudder ever so slightly.

"Do you think we should check on him?" Étienne asked, glancing nervously toward the door.

Belle laughed in embarrassment and lifted a hand to brush some loose hair away from her face. "No, he's all right. _Really_," she insisted, when Étienne shot her a doubtful look. "I've learned to tell when the noises are cause for alarm. And that one was nothing to worry about. _Most_ of them sound worse than they actually are."

Étienne didn't appear entirely convinced. "What is he _doing_ down there?"

Belle pretended to concentrate on slipping the end of the thread through a needle as she considered how to answer that question. Her father's work wasn't exactly her favorite topic of conversation. Not because she wasn't proud of what he did, but because any discussion of it invariably seemed to invite a slew of snide remarks and thoughtless insinuations about his mental health. It was naïve to hope that Étienne hadn't already heard at least _some_ of those rumors during his time in the village, though, so what was the point in trying to gloss over the truth? "My father...is an inventor," she admitted. "And he's converted our cellar into a workshop where he can work on his inventions."

To her immense relief, Étienne didn't laugh, or sneer, or react in any of the ways that she had come to expect. "An _inventor_?" he said, his voice rising a little as he cocked his head. "I've never met one of those. Is that even a...I mean...how does one even _become_ an inventor? Is there training for that?"

"Well Papa is mostly self-taught. And in his case, he sort of..._accidentally _became one while trying to impress a girl."

"Inventing to impress a girl?" One thick brow arched slightly in skepticism. "And how did _that_ work out for him?"

"Oh, pretty well I'd say," Belle replied evenly. "Considering the girl married him."

She smiled in satisfaction at the startled look that this elicited from Étienne. "She - she _married him_? _Really_? But how...?"

"When Papa went off to university, he fell in love with his professor's daughter - my mother," she explained. "But by the time he met her, she already had a small army of suitors lining up to court her."

"Her family must have been pretty well off, huh?" Étienne observed.

"No, not particularly," said Belle. "But Maman was very beautiful. And most of her other suitors were quite wealthy, or wealthier than Papa was anyway. They promised her all kinds of things that he could never hope to match. So he realized that he needed to do something a little more..._creative _to get her attention. Something that would appeal to her interests and show her that he saw her as more than just something to parade around on his arm.

"He knew that Maman adored music," Belle went on. "So Papa decided that he would try to win her heart through music. _Unfortunately_," she said with a slight smirk, "Papa had no musical ability whatsoever. But he _was_ very good with machines. He bought an old jewelry box from a pawn shop, tinkered with it for a bit, and somehow figured out a way to refashion it with some spare clock parts so that it would play a little song when the lid was lifted. And then he gave the box to Maman as a gift, so that she could have music whenever she wanted, no matter where she was."

"And that actually _worked?_" Étienne interjected. The incredulity in his voice was almost palpable. "That impressed your mother enough to convince her to pick him over all of her other suitors?"

Belle laughed. "It worked _so_ well that Papa continued to try to invent things just so he'd have new things to impress her with. By the time Maman finally agreed to marry him, he'd been forced to rent a bigger work space at the university just to have somewhere to store all of his inventions. And somewhere in the process of wooing my mother with his brilliant ideas, Papa realized that creating new things made him really happy, and that he might be able to use his ideas to help people and make life better for them."

"And has he?" Étienne asked.

Belle lifted a shoulder and smiled. "He's working on it."

"Well what else has he invented?"

"Oh, all different kinds of things. He invented that device over there" - Belle pointed to an odd looking box mounted on a set of hinges next to the door - "which lets us see who's standing on the other side of the door without having to open it. That one has come in handy more often than you would believe," she remarked dryly, thinking of all the times she had hidden silently behind the door when Gaston had come calling. "And he once built a machine that could wash the laundry by itself...although that one _did_ tend to shred the occasional piece of clothing. Oh, don't worry!" she added quickly when she saw Étienne wince. "I won't wash _your_ cloak in there."

It was hard not to laugh at the look of obvious relief that passed over his face. "And what is he working on now? It sounds..._loud_," said Étienne.

"That's the wood chopping machine. He designed it to chop and stack firewood."

"What, all on its own?"

"All on its own," Belle said proudly. "The only thing it can't do is cut down the tree. At least, I don't _think_ it can," she said with a frown.

"Does it work?"

"Not only does it work, but it's the most successful machine he's ever invented. A count he met at an inventors' fair just hired him to build a half dozen more of them."

Étienne whistled and sat back in his chair. "You must be very proud of him."

"I am," Belle agreed, smiling broadly. "I really am. He's worked so hard for this. I only wish that my mother could have been here to see all his work finally pay off. She was the only one who ever really believed in him, aside from me."

Étienne's brow wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth turned down. "_Was_...?" he said softly.

"She passed away. Several years ago, before we even moved to this village," Belle explained. She saw Étienne's gaze flicker to the portrait on the wall, and her smile grew wistful as she turned to look up at it. "That's her," she said, confirming his unspoken question.

"She _was_ very beautiful," said Étienne. "You look so much like her."

He said this last bit in the same matter-of-fact tone that one might use to observe that the sky was blue, or that water was wet, but his words sent a fluttery, almost weightless feeling rippling through Belle. Even her toes felt a bit tingly. _Étienne thinks I'm beautiful? _

At the same time, though, a more rational voice in her head pushed back against this sudden burst of giddiness - or at least it tried to. _It's nothing you haven't been told by half the village_, it argued. _It shouldn't be any different just because he's the one saying it._

And yet it _was._ It was hard to feel flattered by the praise for her looks when she knew that the same people praising them were also calling her odd behind her back. Belle often wondered what her fellow villagers would say to her face if she had been plain looking. But she had never sensed that Étienne treated her any differently because of her appearance. In fact now that she thought about it, he had never remarked on her appearance even once before now. And in a strange way, this somehow made it easier to openly accept his compliment, whether it had been intended or not.

Perhaps even stranger, though, was the fact that a rather substantial part of her was not just flattered, but actually _pleased_ by the thought that Étienne found her beautiful. _That_ feeling was certainly new - not to mention a bit alarming.

"Thank you," Belle managed, when she finally got her voice to start working again. She wasn't quite sure if she was thanking him for the overt compliment about her mother, or for the implied compliment about herself. She stole one last look at the portrait as she tried to collect her thoughts. "But...I'm sorry. We were going to fix your pants. I didn't mean to bore you by babbling on about my parents."

Étienne smiled easily, seemingly unaware of the onslaught of conflicting emotions his words had just unleashed. "I wasn't bored. It was a good story. Kind of sweet, actually."

"Well, thank you," Belle said again. "But we really should get started fixing your pants. Unless you want to go to work in those tonight," she added, gesturing to the too-short trousers he was still wearing.

He made a face, which she took as a sign that he did not. "If I get this started for you," she said, snipping the thread with a pair of shears and tying off the ends, "do you think you can finish it up?"

Étienne shot up in his seat and looked at her as if she had just sprouted a second head. "Wait, _what_? You want _me_ to mend them?"

"Why not? It's easy enough. And if you can work on this, then I can get started trying to scrub those stains out of your cloak." She wrinkled her nose as she glanced over at the cloak. "That could take a while."

"I don't think it's a good idea, Belle," Étienne protested. "I don't even know the first thing about -" he gestured helplessly to the sewing in her lap - "_that_. I'll only make it worse."

"Oh, don't be silly," she said with a short wave of her hand. "You'll be fine once I show you what do to. Here, just pull your chair over..."

* * *

With Belle's help, Étienne managed to do a passable job of mending his pants. It wasn't the prettiest handiwork, but Belle doubted that Gaston's customers were likely to notice or care. And with them both set to work fixing his clothes, they were able to finish in enough time to start on the first book of _Le Morte d'Arthur_ \- Étienne's choice - before he had to head back to the village and she had to start preparing dinner for herself and her father.

"So," Maurice said casually, as he took a seat across the table from Belle that evening and helped himself to a large bowl of stew, "tell me about this handsome new friend of yours."

"I don't know if I'd call him _that_, Papa," Belle replied.

"What, _handsome_?" Maurice asked innocently.

"No, my _friend_," Belle corrected him. "I mean, I think we _could_ be friends. But I don't know him all that well just yet."

A slow, knowing smile spread across her father's face, and his eyes twinkled mischievously. "So then you _would_ call him handsome."

"What?" Belle exclaimed. "No! I mean...I mean _yes_, I suppose he is. Objectively. I hadn't really given it much thought," she lied, ducking her head and quickly sticking a spoonful of stew into her mouth.

A noncommittal "hmmm," was all her father said in reply to that. "Well, he seems like a nice enough fellow. And I'm glad to see you making some friends your age. So when did he start coming around?"

"Not that long ago," Belle said. "It was a little after you left for the fair."

Her father's eyes narrowed a bit. "And do you see him every day?"

"Not necessarily. Only on days when Gaston doesn't need him."

Maurice made a noise of surprise. "I wouldn't have taken him for one of Gaston's friends."

"Oh, no!" Belle laughed. "Goodness, no. They aren't friends. Étienne is only working for him - temporarily. He and Gaston are _nothing_ alike."

"Except for being handsome," her father said pointedly.

"Étienne is thoughtful. And _smart_," said Belle, choosing to ignore her father's teasing jab. "He's capable of having an intelligent conversation. One that doesn't revolve around himself," she added with a roll of her eyes.

"So where is he from?"

Belle frowned thoughtfully. "I'm not actually sure. He's never mentioned it. Not too far, I don't think. He seemed to be travelling pretty lightly."

"I see. And he was travelling all by himself? No family? Parents? Brothers, sisters? _Wife_?"

"He mentioned a father," said Belle. "But...he doesn't like to talk about him very much."

"Well who is the family he's travelling to see?"

Belle shook her head. When Étienne had mentioned that bit to her father, it was the first she'd heard of it. "I don't know."

"Let me guess: he's never mentioned it?"

Her stomach sank a little at her father's tone. She hated that she had no better response than "No."

"It sounds to me like he's capable of having a conversation about anything _but_ himself," Maurice observed wryly.

"I've thought that too, at times," Belle admitted.

"And that doesn't bother you?"

"No, it does. A little. But I'm trying to be patient." Belle propped her chin on her hand and sighed. "I'm hoping that he'll start to open up once he knows me better."

"Well, I trust you know what you're doing," her father said. "But please be careful. I know it can be hard feeling like you have no one to talk to, but I also worry about you growing too fond of someone you barely know. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Don't worry, Papa. I know better than that. Besides, it would be foolish to get attached to someone who's just going to leave." She felt a lump form in her throat as the words left her mouth, and she was caught off guard by the sudden wave of sadness that seemed to wash over her.

Her father must have heard this sadness in her voice, because he reached across the table and patted her hand gently. "We'll be leaving too," he reminded her. "Soon."

"I know," said Belle. "And I'm only trying to make the best of things until we do. Speaking of which," she went on, hoping that her father wouldn't push back against her blatant attempt to change the subject, "have you given any thought to where we should go? Because I have a few ideas..."

She hopped up to retrieve an atlas from the book shelf. At least a half dozen bookmarks stuck out from between its pages. "Paris would be nice, of course," she said, flipping to the first marked page and placing the book in front of her father. "But on the other hand, I've always wanted to see the seashore, and being close to a port could be beneficial for your work." She leaned over her father's shoulder and pointed to an area on the map, close to the coastline. Étienne's looming departure faded quickly from her thoughts as the conversation turned instead toward all of the places in which she and her father might resettle. After all, there wasn't much sense in dwelling on someone else's future when there was still so much she had to decide about her own.

* * *

_Big thanks to my awesome beta TrudiRose for her help with this chapter. I owe her more cookies than I can count (and I can count pretty high - at least to, like, triple digits)._

_Happy holidays to everybody, and happy new year! Have fun, stay safe, and I'll see you in 2017. :)_


	16. Chapter 16

_Tap. Tap, tap. Tap_. Adam listened to the patter of raindrops hitting glass as he stared out the window into the grey, drizzly afternoon.

"Do you think Gaston will find the wolves today?" Clothilde asked, coming to stand next to him at the window.

"I don't know." Adam sighed a long, weary sigh. "I hope so."

Clothilde smiled sympathetically and placed a hand on his arm. "Does it still hurt very much?"

Adam finally turned away from the window with a frown. "Huh?"

"Your _leg_," said Clothilde. "The one that was bitten by the wolves. It still hurts, doesn't it?"

"Oh, uh ... yes? A little," Adam replied, still not quite sure where the conversation was going.

"Well don't worry. They won't be able to escape him for much longer, you know. Gaston always gets his mark sooner or later."

"_Oh_. Right," Adam agreed, finally nodding in understanding. _She thinks I'm concerned about the wolves_. "I hope you're right."

And he did hope so, truly. But not for the reason that Clothilde assumed - or at least, not _primarily_ for that reason. Although he'd be glad to see the wolves get what was coming to them, he would be even gladder for Gaston to resume his normal stewardship over the tavern. Every day that Gaston spent chasing after the wolves was another day that Adam was left "in charge" for the afternoon. And it had become harder than ever to sit idle in the tavern for hours on end when he knew that he _could_ be spending that time sitting next to a warm, cozy fire, sipping tea and reading about the adventures of Sir Lancelot or Captain Singleton or Gulliver with Belle. Adam had always enjoyed reading to some extent, but he had never fully appreciated until recently what an effective escape it could provide from the real world. When he shared a book with Belle, it was actually easy, at least for a few hours, to forget that he spent the rest of his day slinging ale for pocket change in some poor provincial village.

Adam had actually considered paying a visit to the village bookseller when it became clear that the wolves weren't going to be caught in a day (or even two). He had yet to meet M. Marchand, but Belle had told him that the old man who ran the book shop was very kind and often lent her his books, free of charge. Adam had wondered whether M. Marchand would be willing to lend _him_ a book or two as well to keep him occupied during the long, boring afternoons in the tavern. But he had never actually followed through. Adam knew that the other villagers considered Belle's love of reading to be odd, and he had already become enough of a curiosity in this town as it was. He needed to blend in, not find new ways to stick out. Even if his only company during the day was Clothilde, he knew how she and her sisters loved to gossip.

But besides that, he had a suspicion that reading alone wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable as reading with Belle was. If he was honest with himself, he didn't just miss the books - he missed her company too. He had spent a lot of time over the last few days gazing out the window, just as he was doing now. But it wasn't until yesterday, when he thought he had glimpsed Belle's cloak moving through the marketplace and had rushed outside to talk to her, that he realized he had been doing it in the hopes of seeing _her_. Unfortunately, he had never determined whether it had been Belle who he had seen, because the person had vanished into the crowd before he could catch up. He wondered if Belle was worried about the fact that he hadn't shown up for the last five days. He hadn't been able to send word to let her know what was keeping him. Did she think something had happened to him? Did she think he had forgotten about her? Did she sit by her window like he did, and watch for_ him_?

Adam decided that he had had enough of wondering. There was no reason for him to be here. He grabbed his cloak and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Clothilde.

"Out," Adam replied curtly.

"For how long?"

"I don't know. A few hours probably."

"But Gaston told you to watch the tavern!"

Adam groaned and looked up at the ceiling. "I've been 'watching the tavern' for the past five days, and the most important thing I've had to do was empty the mousetraps. I'm a glorified house cat, Clothilde. I don't need to be here."

"But that isn't the point," Clothilde insisted. "Gaston gave us jobs to do. We can't just not do them."

_He gave _us _job_s... A stroke of inspiration struck Adam as he watched her twirl the handle of the mop in her hands. "No...," he said thoughtfully. "We can't. But maybe we _can_ help each other with them. How about this: if you cover for me today, I promise I'll wash the floor for you tomorrow," he said, knowing how much Clothilde hated mopping the tavern floor after the morning customers had left.

She cast a sidelong glance at him. "_Really_?"

"Really," Adam swore solemnly, holding his hand out to shake on it.

"You _promise_?"

"Yes, I promise!"

Clothilde folded her arms slowly. "If I cover for you, I think you should clean the floors for the rest of the week," she countered.

Adam's mouth fell open. The rest of the _week_? Was she serious? He _k__new_ he had sounded too desperate! But he also knew that he didn't want to waste the whole day haggling over chores with her. Who knew when he might get another opportunity to sneak out? "Fine, all right, the rest of the week! Do we have a deal or not?"

Clothilde beamed in satisfaction. "We have a deal," she agreed. "Just as long as you're back before sunset. I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep Gaston distracted if he returns before you do."

"I will!" Adam shouted over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. "And Clothilde? Thank you!"

* * *

A short time later, Adam was being ushered out of the rain and into Belle's nice, warm house. "Étienne!" she exclaimed, as she stepped back to allow him over the threshold. "What a surprise. I was starting to think you were avoiding me."

Adam could tell by the playful smile on her face and the lightness in her tone that she hadn't _really _been thinking that. For some reason, though, he still felt compelled to apologize for his recent absence. "I'm sorry about that," he said as he followed her to the sitting area and shrugged off his cloak. "I've been _wanting_ to come, but I haven't been able to get away for the past few afternoons."

"That's all right," said Belle, moving toward the kitchen. "I'm just sorry that I don't have a pot of tea ready. If I'd known you were coming today, I would have had it waiting. It's positively _frigid_ out there."

"You're telling me," Adam agreed, hitching his chair a little closer to the fireplace and rubbing his hands together briskly.

"Well, I'm glad to see you in any case. Papa's been away the past two days purchasing materials for his machines, so it's been so quiet around here. What's going on at the tavern? It sounds like things must be pretty busy?"

"Not at _all_," Adam sighed. "But Gaston likes to put me in charge whenever he leaves for the day, and he's been gone for the last few days. So" - he made a sweeping gesture with his hand - "I've been stuck."

"Oh?" Belle said curiously. She knelt next to the fireplace and hung a kettle over the flames. "And what has Gaston been doing the past few days that's been taking him away?"

"Trying to hunt down those wolves," Adam replied.

Belle shuddered slightly at the reminder of the wolves. "Has he had any luck?"

"No," said Adam. "Not yet."

"Well if anyone can get them, it's Gaston." Belle smiled wryly. "He's nothing if not relentless."

"Relentlessly _stupid_," Adam snorted. "I still don't understand how an _imbécile_ like _him _managed to dupe an entire village into believing he's such a prize. Sometimes you have to wonder who is actually dumber: him or them."

"Have you considered that maybe Gaston isn't _all_ bad?" Belle retorted, and Adam was caught somewhat aback by how defensive she sounded. "I mean, _yes_, he's boorish and brainless and _completely_ full of himself. But even he has his good points."

"_Really_?" Adam drawled, resting an elbow lazily on the arm of his chair and leveling a dubious look in her direction. "Name one."

"Well...for one thing...Gaston is the person who everyone in the village turns to when they have a problem. And he's always willing to help them."

"Always willing to feed his own ego, you mean."

Belle shrugged. "His reasons may not be the most selfless, but the point is that he's _there_, even when no one else is. He knows that people count on him, and he'll go to the ends of the earth not to let them down."

"And you..._like _that about him?" Adam mused, trying to wrap his head around the thought that Belle could actually find something positive to say about _Gaston_.

Belle pressed her lips together and looked off to the side. "I _respect_ it," she said after a moment's thought. "_What_?" she added, suddenly furrowing her brow. "What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Adam held up his hands with a laugh. "Nothing! Nothing's wrong! I'm just...surprised to hear you defending him is all." He grinned teasingly. "With an attitude like that, you might make a fine Madame Gaston after all."

"_No_," Belle argued, and if looks could kill, Adam was certain that he would have met his end right there, without ever setting foot outside of Molyneaux again. "I would not."

"Oh, I don't know. Gaston certainly seems to believe that the two of you are a perfect match."

Belle groaned as she sank into the empty chair next to him. "That's only because the entire marriage he's imagined for us is built on fantasy. If he took even a minute to think about what it would _really_ be like for the two of us to be married, he'd forget about the whole thing just as quickly as I did."

Adam nearly fell out of his chair at that. "So then...you've _thought _about it?"

"Of course I've _thought _about it," Belle admitted, and the blush spreading across her cheeks did little to dispel the stirrings of dismay that suddenly invaded Adam's consciousness. "He could provide a comfortable life, help me take care of Papa when he gets older." She sighed and shook her head. "But it would_ never_ work. Even if I could ignore the fact that we're completely incompatible, marrying Gaston...it would be like just...giving up."

"Giving up?" Adam frowned. That was an odd way of putting it. "How do you mean?"

The kettle on the fire began to whistle, and Belle bolted from her seat. "I want _adventure_," she explained, turning her back to him as she carefully removed the kettle from the flames. "I want to see new places, meet new people_, _try new new things. But I'll never have _any_ of that if I marry Gaston. He has everything he wants right here: his home, his tavern, an entire village that treats him like a king. Why would he ever leave? If I marry _him_, I'll be stuck in this village, pushing out his babies, cleaning his house, and cooking his meals until the day that I die."

She looked so sad when she turned around that Adam couldn't help but feel a bit like a traitor for the swell of relief that set his reeling mind at ease. "Hey, it's all right," he said, jumping up to take the kettle from her. "That _won't_ happen, not if you don't want it to. Nobody can force you to marry him if it's not what you want."

"I know," Belle sighed as she turned to fetch a teapot and a pair of cups from the mantelshelf. "I just wish he weren't quite so..._overbearing_ with his attentions sometimes. It becomes very isolating."

"It does?"

Belle nodded. "Believe it or not, most of the women in the village think it would be _nice_ to be pursued by someone like Gaston. I've even overheard a few of them suggest that I'm toying with him, or that I get some sort of _enjoyment_ out of rejecting him," she explained. "The idea that I could simply not be interested is inconceivable to them. And it discourages any of the men from expressing any sort of romantic interest in me, because none of them would dare to stand in the way of him getting what he wants. Not that there's anyone in the village who I would _want_ to express any interest," she was quick to clarify. "But it would be nice to know that 'Madame Gaston' and 'lonely spinster' aren't my only options in life." She laughed, but Adam couldn't help but think that she still sounded sad, and he wished he knew what to say to cheer her up. But he had never been very good at dealing with feelings. When it came to his own sorrows, he usually found that drowning them was the quickest way to be rid of them. Which, now that he thought about it, might not be such a bad idea...

"_Hey_," he said, brightening. "I think I have something that might help you feel better." He felt around in the inside pocket of his cloak until his fingers closed around something cold and metallic. "_Voilà_!" he said proudly, setting the object down on the table. "I _knew_ there was a reason I kept this in my pocket."

"A flask?" Belle asked, blinking across the table at him. "How is _that_ going to make me feel better?"

"It's not the flask itself; it's what's _in_ the flask," Adam explained.

Belle's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And what's _in_ the flask?"

"I don't know." Adam shrugged. "It's something I found behind the bar a few nights ago. Some kind of grain alcohol, I think. The bottle wasn't marked."

"Are you sure it's safe to drink?"

"I hope so. I've been drinking it for the past few nights. It's _fine_, Belle," Adam assured her when she didn't return his careless grin. He unscrewed the cap of the flask and poured a little of the contents into both of their teacups.

Belle eyed her cup warily, but made no move to take it. "I...don't really drink alcohol," she admitted.

"What, not at _all_?" Adam asked. "Do you not like it?"

"Well, I've had wine a few times, and I suppose that wasn't bad. But I've never tried anything else."

"Well, this doesn't really taste like wine, but the effects are the same. Just...quicker."

She raised her cup to her nose and gave it a sniff. "I don't know about this," she said, making a face.

"Come on, Belle," he coaxed her. "You said you wanted to try new things, right? Well here's your chance."

"This _isn't_ really what I had in mind."

"You never know where your adventures will take you," Adam argued. "What if you find yourself discussing philosophy with the empress of Russia one day, and she offers you a vodka? In some cultures, it's considered an insult to refuse a drink."

"It is?"

"Oh, yes." Adam nodded. "Wars have been started over less. Just ask the ancient Greeks."

That got a laugh out of her. "Well...I wouldn't want to provoke an international incident," she murmured.

"That's the spirit," said Adam. Then he lifted his cup encouragingly in a little salute. "_À__ ta santé_."

"_À__ la tienne_," Belle replied, clinking her cup against his. She watched him drink for a second or two before taking a small, hesitant sip from her own cup. But no sooner had the rim touched her lips than she recoiled, sputtering.

"Are you all right?"

"I think it might have spoiled," she gasped.

Adam took another sip from his own cup and swished the liquid around in his mouth. "No, I'm pretty sure it's _supposed_ to taste like this."

Belle blanched. "Why on earth would anyone willingly drink this?"

"Well...think of it like a book," Adam said, grasping for an analogy that might resonate with her. "Have you ever read a book where the story began so slowly that you almost gave up on it? But then something made you keep reading, and by the time you got a few more chapters in, you couldn't put it down?"

Belle looked torn between disbelief and amusement. "So you're saying this will somehow get better if I keep drinking it?"

"Much better, if you give it enough time. Just...trust me on this?"

Belle searched his eyes for what felt like a long while before finally exhaling. "All right. I trust you. So...what do we_ do_ while we wait for this to get better? Do you want to read more of _Le Morte d'Arthur? _I marked our place last time; I think we were up to the quest for the Holy Grail," Belle said, reaching for a book in the stack at her feet.

"I think you're right," said Adam. "But since we're trying new things today," he continued, deciding on the spur of the moment to press his luck even further, "how do you feel about taking a break from the books and doing something a little different?"

One eyebrow rose slowly. "Please tell me it doesn't involve drinking any more rancid liquids from unmarked bottles."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a card game. Do you know any?" Adam asked, reaching into the inside pocket of his cloak again.

"I know how to play _aluette_," said Belle. "But I don't think we can play that with only the two of us."

Adam wrinkled his nose. "_Aluette_ is a kids' game anyway. I was thinking of something a little more...exciting," he said as he placed the deck of cards on the table.

"Such as...?"

"Well...," Adam said slowly, "what about _pharaoh_?"

Belle's cautiously amused expression turned suddenly serious. "How do you know how to play _pharaoh_?"

"My cousin taught me. And I can teach _you_, if you don't know how. The rules are pretty simple. It won't take you long to catch on."

"But isn't _pharaoh_ illegal? I thought the king outlawed it years ago!"

"All the more reason to learn it, then," Adam countered, shooting her a mischievous wink.

"But what if we get in trouble?"

Adam rolled his eyes. "How would we get in trouble? It's just you and me in here. Unless your teapot can talk, there's no one to tell on us. Besides, it isn't _really_ gambling if we're not playing for money."

Belle tugged nervously on the end of her ponytail. "I don't know..."

Although she was relatively forward-thinking, Adam had to remind himself that Belle wasn't the type to flout rules just for the sake of flouting them. If he was going to persuade her to veer from the straight and narrow, he needed to convince her that there was a _purpose_ to the detour. "You know on second thought, forget I mentioned it," he said abruptly, pushing back in his chair and forcing a breezy tone that belied the care with which he chose his next words. "I'm sorry for badgering you. If you're satisfied with letting some uptight old man with a crown decide what you are and aren't allowed to learn...well, that certainly isn't any of _my_ business. Maybe we should just get back to King Arthur. _Where_ did you say that book was?" he asked, craning his neck to search the room.

He bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself not to look back at Belle, because he knew that if he did, he would crack faster than a sheet of thin ice. But slowly, steadily, he counted down in his head: _Trois...deux..._

Before he could get to _un_, Belle leaned across the table. "_All right_," she said in a low, earnest whisper. "Show me how to play."

Adam looked back at her with a self-satisfied grin. "Well, if you're sure..."

* * *

"Are you _sure_ you want to do that?" Adam asked, peering over the bridge of his nose as Belle placed a handful of dried beans - the best they could come up with for currency considering neither of them had much _actual_ money - on the ace that Adam had crudely sketched out on the back of one of Maurice's old blueprints.

"What's the matter, Étienne?" Belle asked sweetly. Her hazel eyes sparkled as she batted her long lashes at him. "Are you afraid that I might beat you again?"

Adam dipped his chin and regarded her with mock seriousness. "Mademoiselle Dupont, do you know that you get a bit cocky when you drink?" he asked, his gaze sliding pointedly to her twice-refilled teacup.

The smile on Belle's face vanished instantly. "I _do_? Oh no, I'm so sorry." She pushed her teacup to the edge of the table, as if trying to put as much distance between it and herself as possible. "Perhaps I've had enough for now," she said, folding her hands contritely in her lap.

Adam laughed. Her embarrassment was cute, though not as cute as her attempts at cheek had been. "Don't be sorry," he said, reaching for his flask so that he could top off her drink. "I kind of like it. Besides, _I'm_ not going to be sorry when I take your money - er, your _beans_ \- from you."

Belle's lips parted for a moment before breaking fully into a smile. "Oh, _now_ who's being cocky."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Adam replied airily. "Now, will you quit stalling and make your wagers so that we can get on with the game?"

"I'm sorry," Belle shot back. "I didn't realize you were in such a rush to go broke."

Adam raised an eyebrow and tipped his head at her approvingly. He had to hand it to her, she was a quick learner.

"Hmmmm," Belle hummed, casually rolling a few more beans around in the palm of her hand as she considered the remaining cards on their makeshift _pharaoh_ board. Finally, she placed the beans on the seven. "All right, I'm done. I hope you're ready to pay up," she added with a grin.

Adam smirked back at her. "Not this time, sweetheart." _Sweetheart_? Where did _that_ come from? Perhaps Belle wasn't the only one who needed to moderate her drinking, he thought, glancing ruefully at his own empty cup. Surprisingly, though, the idea of cutting back didn't bother him nearly as much as it normally might have. Even without the alcohol - heck, even without any real money at stake - this was the most fun game of cards that he had played in quite a long time. And that was saying something, considering he was losing badly at the moment.

And his losing streak only seemed destined to continue when he drew a card from the top of the deck and placed it, face-up, to his right-hand side. "Ugh," he groaned in disgust. "Three." Across the table, Belle's lips twitched behind her hand. "I saw that," Adam grumbled.

Then he drew a second card from the top of the deck. He moved this card to the left-hand side but left it face-down, purposefully taking his time in turning it over. "Uh-uh, no peeking," he scolded, pulling the card back as Belle lowered her head in an effort to get a glimpse of its face. The scowl she gave him in return was almost priceless, but it disappeared the moment he finally flipped the card.

"Ace of spades!" Belle whooped in delight.

"That's a club, actually," Adam muttered, his shoulders going limp. "But the suit doesn't matter; you still win. Again. How are you doing this? Are you sure you can't see these cards somehow?" he asked picking up the remainder of the deck and narrowing his eyes at the face of the bottom card.

Belle laughed. "It's probably just beginner's luck."

Adam shook his head in wonder. "Well whatever it is, I could use some of it. You've won twice as many hands as I have."

"What if we switch for a while?" Belle suggested. "If you shuffle the cards for me, I can be the - what did you call it? The banker? And you can place the bets. Maybe you'll have better luck that way?"

"You wouldn't mind that?"

"Why would I?"

"You've built up a pretty good streak," Adam explained. "You should keep it going while you can. Even the best luck runs out eventually."

Belle shrugged. "Well, then isn't it better to share it before it does?"

Adam considered this. It made sense, in a sweet sort of way - even if it wasn't the most ruthless gambling strategy. And perhaps a little change _would_ do him some good. "All right," he finally agreed, gathering all of the cards into the deck so that he could reshuffle them for her. "You know what to do?"

Belle nodded. "I think so. I've been paying attention to what you've been doing."

Her fingertips grazed the palm of his hand as she reached out to take the deck from him, and Adam's own fingers twitched in response, instinctively closing around hers before she could pull them back. Belle eyes shot up to his in surprise, but she did not try to pull her hand away. Her cheeks flushed, she smiled somewhat bashfully at him, and Adam felt the corners of his own mouth start to tug upward. For a long moment, neither of them said anything; they just continued to smile dumbly at each other across the table.

Belle was the one who finally broke the silence. "Will you write to me, Étienne?" she asked softly.

"What, _now_?"

"Not _now_," she said with a laugh. "I meant after you leave. Will you write to me then?"

"You want me to?"

"It would be nice to hear from you, and to know you made it safely to...well, wherever it is that you're going. I'm going to miss you when you leave."

"You - you _will_?" Adam stammered, feeling unexpectedly touched by this admission.

"I will," said Belle. "Why do you seem so surprised by that?"

"I don't know," said Adam. "I guess I didn't really expect that _anyone _would miss me."

"That isn't fair. I'm sure your father must miss you, despite everything."

"I doubt that," Adam mumbled. "He's not like _your_ father, Belle."

"Well what about your mother? You don't think _she _misses you?"

"Probably not. She's been dead for almost ten years."

"She - she _has_?" Belle withdrew her hand from his and backed away from the table. She looked sad, he thought. But more than that, she looked...confused. Confused and _hurt_. "But...why did you never tell me?"

"Uh...it never came up?" said Adam.

"But what about when I told you about _my_ mother? You let me go on and on about _her_, but you never mentioned yours even once?"

Adam shrugged. "We were talking about _your_ family, not mine."

"That's because you _never_ talk about yours."

The exasperation in her voice only fueled his own. "We've been over this, Belle," Adam growled. "I don't want to discuss it."

"Right," Belle said bitterly. "You don't want to discuss it because you don't get along with your father. Fine. I understand. But what about the rest of your family? Do you not get along with any of _them_ either? Or is there some other reason you don't want to talk about them? Do you not trust _me_?"

Adam lowered his head. His fingertips dug into his temples like the jaws of a vise, and he wanted to kick himself for opening the door to this conversation. Again. All he wanted in that moment was to close that door as quickly as possible, but Belle seemed intent on forcing it open even wider. "What do you want me to say? I don't understand why you want to know about them so badly!"

"Because friends _talk_ to each other," Belle insisted, almost pleading with him. "They _share_ things about themselves."

"And how would you know that?" he retorted. "I was under the impression that you didn't _have_ any friends in this village."

The room went instantly silent, so silent that Adam swore he could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. Belle looked stunned, as if she had just been physically slapped, and Adam felt like he had been seized by a sudden paralysis. A dozen different apologies rose at once to the tip of his tongue, but his lips refused to move to form the words. All he could do was sit, frozen, and watch helplessly as hurt welled up in Belle's eyes.

She managed to pull herself together before he did. "Apparently," she said, in a voice that was equal parts steely and sad, "I _don't_."

"_Belle_, wait. That's not what - I didn't mean...," Adam started.

Belle shook her head with such force that it made Adam's own head spin. "Please don't." She swept the cards into one big, messy pile and shoved them across the table. "I think you should leave now, Étienne," she said, marching to the door and yanking it open. "Please, just _go_."

* * *

_Where could those blasted beasts be hiding? _Gaston's fists clenched unconsciously around the reins as he steered his horse toward the village. His wagon rumbled along beside them, with Lefou perched in the driver's seat and the bodies of several deer - but no wolves - piled beneath a tarp in the bed. Lefou was chattering on and on about something, but Gaston was too busy stewing to even _pretend_ that he knew what. Day five of his hunt for the wolves had ended much like days one through four had, with barely a clue as to the whereabouts of his quarry.

It was almost like they were taunting him with their disappearing act. He knew they were close; they had to be, to be sneaking into the village so frequently. They had almost certainly made their den somewhere in the surrounding forest. The question was, where? Gaston knew the forest like he knew the back of his hairy, powerful hand, and he had searched all of the most obvious locations for their hideout. But the most he had found was a half-collapsed burrow that looked like it had been abandoned a long time ago.

A shout jerked him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see that they had left the dirt road and ridden onto the cobblestone streets of the village. Several of the villagers looked their way as they passed, and a few of them waved or called out greetings to him and Lefou. The shout, as it turned out, had come from André Agneau, the shepherd's son. He was only a year or two younger than Gaston, but his thin, wiry frame and unruly mop of straw-colored hair made him look more like a boy who was still several years shy of adulthood.

"Did you get 'em?" André asked hopefully, hurrying up to the wagon and rising up on his toes to get a peek into the back. "Did you get the wolves?"

"Naw." Lefou shook his head apologetically. "Just a coupla deer."

"Oh." André sank back down on his heels, and his entire face seemed to sink with them. "Well...I'm sure you'll get 'em next time."

His words seemed to express confidence, but something in the way André was looking at him left Gaston feeling unsettled, and he didn't understand why until much later that night, when he saw Catherine giving the same look to a woman who had arrived at the tavern to bring her very drunk husband home. It was then that Gaston finally recognized the sentiment for what it really was: _pity_. Pity for _him_, from a man who herded sheep for a living! The very idea was prepositer ... presposteri ... presasperi ... well, it was _ridiculous_, that was what it was! But as much as he wanted to, Gaston couldn't bring himself to just laugh it off. Was that how people saw him now, after nearly a week of hunting the wolves with nothing to show for it? As someone to be pitied? As a _failure_?

He needed to do something, he decided. Something _big. _ Something that would remind everyone that he was still the greatest thing to happen to this village - and maybe to distract them from the fact that he still had yet to catch even one of those damned wolves. But what? He inched his chair closer to the hearth and leaned forward on his elbows, staring raptly into the fire as if he expected the answer to rise like magic out of the flames.

What if he had Mme. Farine paint a new portrait for him to hang over the mantle? Something grand and awe-inspiring. His eyes traveled upward to the painting that hung there now. _Look at that handsome devil_, he thought with a smile, admiring the sight of himself posed majestically on top of some rocks. _So manly, so magnificent_. Then his smile turned despairing. How could he possibly hope to improve upon such perfection? The only way, he realized, was to get those wolves. Then he would have Mme. Farine paint him with their pelts draped over his massive shoulders, like some ancient warrior readying to ride into battle.

For now, though, he needed another idea. Something bigger than a painting. Perhaps he could organize an event of some sort, something that would allow him to fully flaunt his greatness, like a sporting contest, or...or a _party_. The wolves might still be on the loose, but he _had_ managed to bring down a few good-sized bucks that afternoon. They would certainly provide more than enough meat to feed a crowd. And thanks to Lefou's prolific brewing skills, there was a surplus of ale in the cellar. _Yes_, Gaston thought, quickly warming up to the idea. A party might be just the thing. He could invite the entire village, and ply them with food and alcohol. He could probably even get Thomas and his brothers to provide some music for dancing. The only problem was, you didn't invite the entire village to a party unless you had some occasion to celebrate. And Gaston had nothing to celebrate, at least not yet. _Unless_...

A wide grin crept across Gaston's face as he was suddenly struck with an idea so perfect, even _he _was impressed by its brilliance. "Lefou!" he called out, beckoning his little friend to his side with an urgent wave of his hand.

Lefou scurried across the tavern as fast as his stubby little legs would carry him. "Whatcha need, Gaston? More beer?"

"No," said Gaston. Then he reconsidered. "Actually, _yes_. Better make it two. But first, I need you to go get the minister and bring him back here."

"The minister?" Lefou frowned and looked toward the windows. "I dunno, Gaston. It's pretty late. What if he's already asleep?"

"Then _wake_ him up."

A look of unease passed over Lefou's face. "Can't it wait until morning?"

"If it could," said Gaston, "do you think I would be telling you to do it now?"

"Uh..." Lefou's eyes nearly went crossed as he labored over this thorny riddle. "...no?"

"_No_," Gaston agreed. "Now _go_, and if you have to wake him up, wake him up. Just don't come back without him. There isn't a moment to waste."

"There isn't?" said Lefou. "_Gosh_, Gaston, what's going on?"

Gaston smiled and gave his friend a not-so-gentle shove toward the door. "Let's just say I have a _proposal_ that's going to make this whole town forget about those wolves."

* * *

_Thank you to my awesome beta, TrudiRose, for her help with this chapter. I'm not sure what happened here, but this chapter ended up being a lot longer than I intended._

_A brief PSA regarding this chapter: Pressuring someone else to drink (or to do anything else they may be reluctant to do) isn't cool. As someone who's been on the receiving end of that kind of pressure, I don't personally condone it. I did think it fit with Adam's personality at this stage, as someone who has yet to completely reform his obnoxious tendencies. But make no mistake: it IS obnoxious._


	17. Chapter 17

"Uuunnnff..."

Adam sprawled sideways across his cot, with his lower legs dangling over one side of the lumpy mattress and his shoulders and head hanging limply over the other. He smacked his lips, but the sour taste of bile seemed destined to linger as a regrettable souvenir of his even more regrettable night - a night that had seemed to stretch into eternity as he passed the hours alternately getting sick into a bucket and staring at the ceiling while he contemplated all of the ways in which he had proven himself to be nothing but a horse's _derrière_.

Foremost among these was the new personal low he had managed to achieve by driving away the one person who had actually seemed to see something worthwhile in him. The look on Belle's face when he had lashed out at her had haunted his dreams - during the brief periods in which he had actually managed to _get_ some sleep. It was the look of someone who had expected better of him, and had been let down in the cruelest way possible. Unlike most of the people he had known in his life, she hadn't seen him as a disappointment or an object of curiosity, and she hadn't endured him simply for the sake of appearance or the possibility of reward. She had actually _liked_ him, simply for being himself, and he had turned on her like a rabid dog. If that didn't prove that her fondness for him had been misplaced, he didn't know what did.

Then there was the afternoon spent wallowing in self pity and alcohol until he made himself ill. But it hadn't been enough just to drink himself sick, no. He had had to go and vomit all over the bar, in front of an audience. On the bright side, he wasn't sure how he would have made it to his room before Gaston returned from his hunting trip if Camille and Catherine had _not_ been there to drag his dead weight up the stairs. He vaguely remembered Camille even promising to tell Gaston that he had come down with a fever, so that he wouldn't get in trouble for missing his shift.

And there was that too, of course - he probably wouldn't be getting paid for spending the night in bed. And he didn't imagine that Camille and Catherine were particularly happy with him after he had left them to not only literally clean up his mess, but to lie to Gaston and to pick up his slack as the customers began trickling in.

And that only covered the last twenty-four hours' worth of screw-ups.

But the night, it seemed, was finally over - if the growing brightness that Adam could sense through his closed eyelids was any indication. He was thoroughly exhausted, and his sides ached like they had been worked over by a gang of prizefighters. But he felt surprisingly sober, and he was grateful for that. He knew he would be better served by a clear head when he went to apologize to Belle. He wondered whether the last day and a half had been as miserable for her as it had been for him. He hoped not. He knew that she hadn't had as much to drink as he had, at least. But then she also wasn't as accustomed to the stuff as he was. Guilt bubbled up in his gut, and he thought he might be sick again as he recalled the way that he had hounded her into drinking with him. Why had he been so insistent that she join him? It wasn't like he wasn't used to drinking alone.

He rolled gingerly onto his side and eased his eyes open. Bright morning sunlight blazed through the window; it was well past sunrise by now, which almost certainly meant that there were customers waiting downstairs. He supposed he'd better go and relieve Clothilde before she came looking for him - one _more_ thing to apologize for, he thought with rue. But he couldn't afford for her to be mad at him, especially not when he was going to need her to cover for him for a second afternoon in a row so that he could go talk to Belle. But he'd offer to mop the floors for a month if he had to; he needed to talk to Belle, and he needed to do it as soon as possible. The idea of her sitting home alone, believing that their friendship had been one-sided all along, was eating at him.

He cleaned himself up as best as he could and then made his way to the stairs. He was halfway down before he noticed with some surprise that the tavern seemed unusually quiet. Where was the hum of conversation, clank of flatware, and general cacophony that shook the rafters on most mornings? When Adam finally reached the bottom of the stairs, he received both the answer and an even bigger surprise: the tavern was _empty_ \- or at least, there didn't seem to be any customers in it. It couldn't be _that_ late, could it? Adam hovered uncertainly in the shadows of the stairwell, trying his best to blend into the background until he figured out exactly what he had missed.

The first person he spotted was Lefou. Gaston's other half was standing near the window, talking in hushed tones with a white-haired man dressed in vestments. _A minister_? Adam guessed, though that only raised more questions than it answered. It wasn't a Sunday. Why would a minister be in the tavern? And what business would he have with Lefou?

His gaze traveled next to the bar, where Clothilde was helping Gaston inspect his suit, and - wait, his _what_? Adam blinked and then narrowed his eyes at the pair.

Gaston wasn't dressed to spend the day hunting, that much was for certain. His gleaming white trousers and polished boots wouldn't remain that way for long in the muck of the forest. And though his gold tunic was very elegant looking (or at least what Adam assumed _passed_ for very elegant looking in these parts) it wouldn't exactly do much to camouflage him from the eyes of his prey. He watched as Clothilde adjusted Gaston's necktie and tucked a flower into the buttonhole of his deep red jacket. Though her hands were steady, her lower lip trembled, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Gaston, by contrast, appeared positively gleeful. He whistled a cheerful tune as he took a long, appraising look at his reflection in an empty beer stein, breaking off only briefly to run his tongue over his teeth.

A chair scraped loudly against the floor, jarring Adam from his thoughts, and he turned to see Catherine and Camille huddled together around one of the tables. Both women were openly sobbing. _Wait, why are all _three _of them here?_ he wondered, looking back to Clothilde. Something unusual was going on this morning, but for the life of him, Adam couldn't even begin to guess what. He looked around again, hoping to find something he had missed, something that would explain the peculiar scene he had just walked in on. But finding nothing, he finally decided that Camille's and Catherine's table was as good a place as any to start looking for answers.

"What's going on?" he asked, taking a seat and leaning across the table. He tried to make his voice loud enough to be heard over their tears, but not so loud that it would betray his complete ignorance to the rest of the people gathered in the room. A possibility suddenly occurred to him as he stole another look at the clergyman talking with Lefou. "Did someone die?"

"_Worse!_" Camille managed through her tears. "Gaston is getting...is getting..._oooh_!" She turned and wailed into Catherine's shoulder, the rest of what she had been about to say evidently much too terrible for her to actually voice it aloud.

Adam's brows rose as he turned to Catherine, searching her face for some sort of explanation. By now, a nagging sense of unease had started to seep into his subconscious. "Is getting _what_?" he implored her. "What is going _on_?"

Catherine patted her sister soothingly on the back, and then took a deep breath as she wiped a hand across her own tear-stained cheek. "Gaston is getting married," she said solemnly.

"He's getting _what_?" Adam turned to look once more at Gaston. He took in the fancy suit, the arrogant smirk, the pungent stench of cologne wafting across the room. He took in the minister and the trio of utterly inconsolable women. And suddenly, finally, it all started to make sense - in a surreal sort of way. "Wait, is he getting married _today_? When did _this_ happen? Who is he marrying?"

Camille reached into the bodice of her dress and withdrew a crumpled handkerchief, which she raised to her nose and blew into noisily. Then she looked up at Adam with an expression so full of anguish, that he almost felt as if _his_ heart were breaking. And with one word, it nearly did: "Belle." He was sure he had to have heard her wrong, but then she said it again: "He's marrying Belle. We're leaving for the...for the _ceremony_...just as soon as he's finished dressing." She sniffled and looked sadly toward the bar. "He looks so _handsome_, don't you think, Catherine?"

The announcement felt like a blow to Adam's already battered gut. Could what Camille said be true? There was no reason for her to make it up. _But it just isn't possible_, he insisted to himself_._ Was it? Hadn't Belle told him not even a full _day_ ago that she could never marry Gaston? That doing so would be tantamount to giving up on her dreams? So why would she agree to marry him _now_? What could have happened in the past few hours to prompt such a sudden - and drastic - change of heart?

Guilt washed over Adam in tidal waves, along with a growing feeling of dread. Did this have something to do with _him_ and their argument? Had _he_ and his big mouth pushed Belle into making the biggest mistake of her life by insinuating that she had no friends? By lending credence to her fears that she would spend her life alone if she didn't agree to become Gaston's wife?

He stumbled to his feet. "I have to go," he muttered to Catherine and Camille. Forget trying to visit Belle later. He had to get to Belle _now_, before she left for the ceremony. He had to apologize and to let her know that what he had said wasn't true, and that she could do better - _infinitely_ better - for companionship than marrying Gaston. He didn't have a moment to lose. But before he could even set one foot in the direction of the door, a shrill whistle pierced the air, and Gaston motioned for everyone to quiet.

"Look alive, everyone! The moment you've all been waiting for is finally here!" He puffed up his chest proudly and flashed a charming grin. "So make way, here comes the groom!"

There was little talk as the group followed Gaston out of the tavern; each person seemed to be lost in his or her own thoughts - which were decidedly varied from one person to another. _This is my chance_, Adam thought as he trailed behind the pack. No one would notice if he slipped away and made a run for Belle's house. If he was fast enough, he might still be able catch her before she got to the chapel. But to his surprise, the group didn't _head _for the chapel. Instead, they turned in the opposite direction, and Adam realized with dismay that they were _all_ headed for Belle's house. Gaston led the little procession through the eerily empty village streets, over the little stone bridge, and down the familiar dirt path to the Dupont's cottage. Adam wished fervently that he could turn time back to the _last_ time he had traveled this path, to before he had made such a mess of things with a few ill-judged words.

The true extent of that mess only became more apparent when they finally arrived at the house, and a large crowd was already waiting there to greet them. A tall canopy adorned with pink and white bunting had been erected in the center of the lawn. To one side of the canopy, a long table was draped in white cloth and laden with enough food and drink to feed the entire village. To the other side stood a smaller table boasting an elaborate cake that looked to be at least three tiers tall. They meant to have the ceremony _here_, at Belle's house, Adam realized. And someone had clearly put a lot of work into the preparations for the event; this wasn't something you just threw together overnight. Which made his conversation with Belle the previous afternoon all the more confounding. Had he _completely_ misread her feelings for Gaston?

The sea of onlookers parted as the minister went to take his place beneath the canopy, and Lefou wandered off to talk to a trio of musicians who had set up their instruments at the edge of a deep mud puddle. Adam's head spun as he drifted through the crowd. He was vaguely aware of Gaston making some sort of wisecrack to his guests, who laughed heartily, before he climbed the steps to the cottage. Adam's insides twisted themselves into knots as he watched Gaston knock on the door. This was it. A few moments later, the door opened just a crack, and Gaston pushed his way through before it slammed behind him. _It's too late_, Adam thought with despair. It was like watching a disaster unfold before his eyes and being powerless to stop it.

Adam looked around desperately, like a drowning man searching for a lifeline. But the air of merriment in the crowd was so palpable it was almost suffocating. The only people who _didn't_ seem overjoyed to be there were the triplets, who were weeping hysterically in a little group all to themselves. Adam stopped his eyes mid-roll when it hit him that their present emotional states were probably not too dissimilar from his own. This entire affair was more tragedy than cause for celebration.

Couldn't _anyone_ else see how wrong this was? A girl like Belle was wasted on Gaston. All he wanted was someone pretty to cook and clean and tell him how wonderful he was. And while Belle certainly was pretty, she was so much more than that. The shame of it, though, was that Gaston would never fully appreciate how extraordinary she was. He would see her intelligence and her confidence as nuisances, rather than qualities to be encouraged.

And poor Belle, what would _her_ life be? As Gaston's wife, she'd be reduced to cooking and cleaning and probably caring for a brood of the man's witless offspring. She deserved better than that. She deserved someone who admired her for more than just her looks. Someone who would be _proud_ of her intellect and her spirit. Someone who cared about _her_ dreams and was willing to help her make them come true. Someone like...

Oh, _no_. _No, no, no, no, no_. When Adam realized where his thoughts had been about to take him, his stomach plummeted like it was made of lead. He could almost _feel_ it hit the ground. This was bad. This was very, very bad. This was really bad. But suddenly, the truth seemed painfully obvious. He _cared_ for Belle. Not just as a friend or as some pleasant distraction from his daily drudgery, but as more. In that instant, he knew it was true. It had become increasingly evident over the past few weeks, but he had been too wrapped up in his own worries to spare it much reflection.

How could he have let this happen? He could think of at least one _big_ reason why it was a bad idea to fall for Belle, and it owned a lot of guns and knew where he slept. Not that Adam believed Gaston would retaliate with physical violence, but there was almost no way he'd allow Adam to keep his job - or his room at the inn - if he found out about Adam's budding feelings for his soon-to-be-wife. His soon-to-be-wife who would probably be living under one roof with them starting tonight. And Adam couldn't afford to lose his only means of support, at least not yet. He still had nowhere near enough money saved to allow him to leave the village.

And that was _another_ reason not to get romantically involved with Belle: he was leaving. He had no ties to this village, and he aimed to keep it that way. What was the point? He didn't belong here, and he had no intention of staying a minute longer than he had to. It wouldn't be fair to him _or_ to her to start a relationship under those circumstances.

But just because she and Adam didn't belong together, it didn't mean that he could just stand by and watch her throw her life away by marrying _Gaston_. Adam looked toward the door with an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. Gaston and Belle were on the other side of that door, probably exchanging some comforting last-minute words as they prepared for their walk down the aisle. What could he do at this point? He couldn't very well barge in there and demand that she not marry him. _Could_ he? His spirits sank lower than he thought was possible as he stared at the door, bracing himself for the inevitable.

The crowd seemed to gasp in unison as the door suddenly flew open, and the band struck up a lively, if slightly off-tune, rendition of a wedding march. And then, just as abruptly, the music ground to an awkward halt as Gaston came tumbling down the steps - alone. He landed in the mud with a splash that sent muck spraying everywhere as the door quickly shut behind him. His bride was nowhere to be seen. A confused murmur rose up from the guests, but Lefou was the only one who made a move to approach the soiled groom. The two exchanged brief words that Adam could not hear, but he could tell from the look on Gaston's face that they were not happy ones. Gaston then marched off angrily in the direction of the village, abandoning his own wedding celebration without so much as a backward glance.

Adam dared not to hope as he pushed through the crowd to get to Lefou. "What's going on?" he asked breathlessly. "Where is he going?"

"Home, I guess," said Lefou.

"But what about the wedding?"

"There's not gonna be a wedding," said Lefou. "Belle said no."

Adam drew in a sharp breath. "She - she _what_?"

"She said no. Turned him down flat, apparently."

"Turned him down...but then...she didn't _know_ about any of this?" Adam said incredulously, gesturing to the commotion around them.

"Nope," said Lefou. "It was all supposed to be a surprise."

Adam could have laughed with relief, if he hadn't been so appalled on Belle's behalf. After his own close brush with an unwanted marriage, he could only imagine what she must be feeling right now. Had Gaston really expected that she would just agree to marry him on the spot? "So what do we do now?" he asked Lefou, feeling suddenly more cheerful than he had all day.

Lefou shrugged. "I guess we gotta tell everyone to go home."

* * *

Adam returned to the tavern along with, seemingly, half of the village. He stayed just long enough to convince himself that no one would miss him before sneaking back out and heading back to Belle's house.

Belle didn't answer his knock right away, and he wondered if, perhaps, she had decided to make herself scarce after the morning's events. He wouldn't blame her for it if she had. From what he had briefly seen back at the tavern, Gaston had not taken Belle's rejection gracefully, and Adam had a sneaking suspicion that she had not heard the last of his proposal. He raised his hand to knock once more, just as a series of distinct mechanical noises sounded from the other side of the door. A moment later, the door cracked open, and Belle's face peeked cautiously around the side. "It's only you," she breathed, stepping back to let him in.

"Who did you think it was?" said Adam.

"_Him._"

Something in the way she said that made Adam glad, and he responded with a droll smile. "He's a little..._preoccupied_...at the moment." When Belle quirked up an eyebrow, he explained. "He landed in the mud when you threw him out. When I last saw him, the girls were marching him upstairs and arguing over who would get to wash the pig manure off of him."

A giggle burst from Belle's lips, and she quickly raised a hand to stifle it. The she cleared her throat and adopted a more serious expression. "Is he all right?" she inquired politely.

"What, physically?" Adam scoffed. "He's fine. His ego was the only thing that got bruised."

"Well _good_." Belle crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "He deserves to be taken down a peg or two after the way he barged in here this morning. What was he _thinking_, bringing the whole town along with him for that...that..._spectacle_? Maybe now he'll give up on this whole silly idea about us getting married."

"I wouldn't count on it, Belle," Adam said, shaking his head slowly. "I heard him back at the tavern telling anyone who would listen that he was going to make you his wife, 'one way or another.' I've actually never seen him so angry. That's why I came here; I wanted to make sure he didn't..._do_...anything to you this morning." He looked her up and down with concern, searching for any visible signs of injury.

Belle swiped angrily at a loose strand of hair before re-crossing her arms and fixing him with a glare. "He didn't touch me, if that's what you mean. But why do _you_ care? I thought we weren't friends."

"That's...the other reason I came," Adam confessed, looking down at the floor and rubbing the back of his neck. He breathed in deeply while he tried to collect his thoughts. "Belle, I'm sorry for what I said to you yesterday. It was cruel. And more than that, it wasn't even true. You _are_ my friend, probably the first _real_ friend I've had in a long time, to be honest. And I'm yours...if you'll have me, knowing what a worthless _salaud_ I am."

He looked up just in time to see Belle lunge forward. The next thing he knew, she had wrapped her arms tightly around his midsection, and his entire body seemed to instinctively relax against hers as he let out a long sigh of relief - relief that she didn't hate him, relief that she hadn't married Gaston, relief that the Belle he felt such affection for hadn't been cowed by his own thoughtless behavior. It was this sense of relief that spurred him to lift his own arms and pull her in closer, even as he wondered whether he was unwisely allowing himself fall even further for her by doing so.

"I wish you wouldn't call yourself worthless," Belle mumbled into his shoulder.

Adam couldn't help but smile at what he was certain was her deliberate choice of words. "What about a _salaud_?"

Belle pulled back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were slightly watery, but they glinted with humor. "I wish you wouldn't call yourself worthless," she repeated, enunciating each word carefully.

Adam exhaled in a silent laugh as she leaned back in and rested her head against his chest. He lifted a hand to stroke her hair, feeling the soft strands of her ponytail slip between his fingers. "I'm going to miss you, too."

He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud until Belle looked back up at him and smiled. "Really?" she said.

"Really. Do you still want me to write to you?"

"I'd like that."

"I think I would too," Adam admitted. "As long as you promise to write back to me."

"All right, then I promise." Belle tightened her arms one last time before finally releasing her hold on him. He tried to conceal his dismay as she took a step back and chewed her lip in thought. "You know," she said after a moment, "I owe _you_ an apology too. I'm sorry for pressing you on the subject of your family. I know you don't like to talk about them, and as your friend, I should have respected that. It isn't any of my business, and I promise not to bring it up again. But I hope you know that if you ever _do _want to talk about them with someone, you can trust me. I would never betray your confidence or...or think any less of you because of who you're related to."

Adam took her hands in his own and gave them a gentle squeeze. "It _isn't_ a matter of not trusting you, Belle," he insisted. "Because I _do_ trust you, I want you to know that. And I know that I've been a bit...secretive...about my past." He acknowledged her crooked smile with one of his own. "But I swear to you, there's a good reason for it." Belle cocked her head curiously, and he knew that she was already struggling not to break the word she had just given him.

Adam swallowed nervously, feeling a bit like he was readying to take a leap off the edge of a very steep cliff. He wanted her to understand why he had been holding back from her, but just how _much_ did he dare to tell her? And how would she take it? It was best to start with baby steps, he decided. Test out the waters bit by bit, and see how it felt. "All right. What I'm about to tell you, you can't repeat to _anyone_, not even your father. Do you promise?" He saw Belle's eyes widen slightly as she nodded.

"All right." He ran a hand through his hair as he considered how to begin explaining his situation. "I guess the first thing you need to know is that, when I left home, I didn't exactly _tell_ anyone that I was going to leave. I just...left. Snuck out in the middle of the night. And in the process, I ruined some pretty big plans that my father had for me. So I know that he's angry with me, and I can almost guarantee that he has people out looking for me. And _that _is why I don't talk much about myself or my family. I've seen how easily gossip spreads around here. If I let something slip, and even the slightest _hint _of my whereabouts ends up getting back to my father, he'll be here to drag me home at the first opportunity. And I can't go back, Belle. I can't go back to letting him control every aspect of my life. Even if I'm not exactly in control of it myself at this point, at least I know that I have a _chance_ of getting it one day."

Belle frowned as she tried to make sense of this information, and Adam held his breath as he waited for the inevitable onslaught of questions that was sure to come. "Those men who robbed you in the tavern," she said finally. "Were _they_ sent by your father?"

Adam laughed in surprise. _That_ had certainly not been the first question he'd expected her to ask. "Uh...no, I don't think so. If they had been, I would be back at the - at _home _right now, and not standing here in your foyer. Those two were just a couple of common thugs who saw a chance to hit an easy mark." He managed a self-deprecating smile.

"And the plans that you..._ruined_," she went on. "Did they have something to do with why you don't get along with him?"

"They were a part of it, yes."

"How big a part?"

"Well they weren't the _sole_ reason...but I guess you could say they were the final straw. He more or less planned out my life without giving me any say in it, and then just assumed I'd go along with the arrangements."

"What kind of arrangements?"

"He wanted to send me away, for one." _Right after he married me off to his buddy's insufferable bore of a daughter_, Adam added privately, but that was one Pandora's box that he did _not_ particularly feel like opening up with Belle right now, for a multitude of reasons.

Belle shook her head. "But I don't understand. Why would he want to send you away? Wouldn't that give him _less_ control over what you did?"

"I don't know." Adam waved a hand in aggravation. "He gave me some lame story about a job relating to...the family business."

"And what exactly _is_ the family business?"

And _there_ was the question he had truly feared. He knew that it had been coming, and yet he still hadn't quite figured out how to answer it. It wasn't so much that he thought she would do anything to _intentionally_ expose him if he came clean with her. But would knowing the truth change the way that she treated him? Could it _not_? And would that inadvertently tip others off to the fact that Adam was not what he seemed? In the split second he had to make up his mind, Adam lost his nerve and took the easy way out. "It's, uh, it's sort of a...bureaucratic...position," he finally mumbled, feeling like a bit of a coward.

"Oh." A look of mild surprise crossed Belle's face, almost as if she had been expecting an answer that was much different. "Like a magistrate?"

"_Kind_ of like that," Adam agreed.

"Huh. So then what did he-"

Her question was cut off by a knock at the door which caused both of them to jump. Adam saw apprehension flash across Belle's face as they looked at each other, and it took him only a moment to realize what she was thinking: that Gaston was already back to give his failed proposal another try.

"I'll get it," Adam said in a low voice, motioning for her to move behind him as he reached for the door. He wasn't exactly sure how he was going to explain his presence in Belle's house to Gaston, but he told himself that he could worry about that later; right now, the important thing was making sure that Gaston didn't get another chance to harass Belle. He lifted his chin, drew himself up to his full height, and put his hand on the doorknob. Then, with one more look back at Belle, he yanked the door open and found himself face to face with...

"_Lefou_?"

"_Étienne_? What are _you_ doing here?"

"I, uh..." Adam was so startled to see Gaston's little lackey waiting on the landing that his mind went blank. "What - what are _you_ doing here?" he said, turning the question back on him.

"I came to look for Gaston's boots. He thinks he left 'em here this morning when...well, you know."

"I...came to look for Gaston's boots too," Adam said quickly, schooling his features into what he hoped was an innocent expression.

"You did?" said Lefou. "Did you find 'em?"

"_Yes_, he did." Belle appeared at Adam's side, holding a pair of large, mud-covered boots by two fingers and wincing in disgust.

"Oh, hey, Belle," Lefou said sheepishly, reaching out to take the boots from her. "Thanks for, uh, hanging on to these."

"My pleasure," Belle replied, in a tone that clearly said it was anything but.

"Right." Lefou squirmed under her reproachful gaze. "Well...I guess we'll just be going then, huh?" he said, looking up at Adam.

"_We_?" Adam echoed.

"You and me. We got what we came for, right?" Lefou reminded him, dangling the boots from his hand.

"Oh, uh, yeah...I guess...I guess we did," Adam said, shooting Belle an uncertain and vaguely apologetic glance. Her brow creased, but she inclined her head slightly as if to say, "Go on, we'll finish this later." And as Adam reluctantly followed Lefou out the door, something told him that she would hold him to it.

* * *

_Thank you, TrudiRose, for your help beta-ing this chapter!_

_Five days until the live action version of Beauty &amp; the Beast comes out in theaters (but, uh, who's counting?)! If you're planning to see it, I hope you enjoy!_


	18. Chapter 18

"Ahhhh." Lefou closed his eyes and sighed blissfully as he stepped into the tavern and closed the heavy wooden door behind him, firmly shutting out the cold that had dogged him all the way to M. Agneau's farm and back. The frigid conditions had made the walk, which was already a bit of a slog for his short legs, feel like even more of an undertaking than usual. But now that he was finally back indoors, the heat was slowly seeping back into his limbs, and it felt like being wrapped in a warm hug. He blew into his hands and rubbed them vigorously over his face, trying to coax some feeling back into his numbed cheeks.

He looked around and spotted Gaston waiting for him at a table near the fireplace, with two mugs of ale already set out in front of him. "Did you talk to M. Agneau?" Gaston called out.

"I...talked to him," said Lefou, reluctantly making his way over to the table.

Gaston wrapped his large hand around one of the mugs and leaned in as Lefou took the seat across from him. There was a spark of excitement in his steely blue eyes. "Is he still willing to let us use his pen tonight to lay the trap for the wolves?"

Lefou reached for the second mug and took a long swig to steel his nerves. "He says everything is ready, but..."

"But _what_?" Gaston demanded.

"But he still seems kinda nervous about it to be honest. He kept goin' on about how he'll be ruined if anything goes wrong."

Gaston's jaw clenched. "_Nothing _will go wrong," he vowed. "We just need to use a few of his sheep to draw the wolves out into the open. But I'll be there to personally see to it that they don't get any closer than that. And if they _do_, I'll pay him for any of the sheep that are lost. But they won't." Gaston scowled and crossed his arms, seemingly signaling that that was the last word on _that_ matter.

Lefou was quiet for a long moment as he stared into his beer. He really didn't want to admit it - especially not to Gaston of all people - but he wasn't too crazy about this plan of his. Sitting up all night in a cold, empty field to watch a bunch of sheep? He'd rather be _counting_ sheep from the comfort of his nice, warm bed. Not to mention, if the plan actually _worked_, those sheep would lure a pack of wolves right to them. Mean, _hungry_ wolves who probably wouldn't mind finishing off their meal with a nice, fat, slow-moving human for a snack.

But Gaston was his best buddy. And he couldn't let his best buddy face those wolves down all by himself, could he? Especially not when he had been so down in the dumps lately. Between the wolves giving him the slip and the whole fiasco at Belle's house, fate had been unusually unkind to Gaston over the past few weeks. And as a result, he had become moody and quiet and, well, just not himself. It was disturbing. But since he had seized on this new plan to trap the wolves, Lefou had started to see glimmers of the old Gaston again. And Lefou would do _anything_ to get the old Gaston back, even if meant spending all night in a freezing cold pasture while a pack of bloodthirsty beasts stalked them from the shadows. Still, he wished there were another way to bolster his friend's spirits. A _safer_ way that didn't require them to leave the warmth and comfort of the tavern on the coldest night of the year.

"Are _you_ sure ya still wanna do this, Gaston?" Lefou finally worked up the guts to ask.

Gaston looked at him like he had just asked for permission to marry his sister. "Of course I'm sure," he said, sounding slightly perturbed. "I'm not afraid of a couple of mangy wolves."

"Oh, n-no, me neither!" Lefou lied. "It's just that this whole thing could take all night. And it's going to be cold out there, ya know? Really cold. André even thinks it might snow."

"All the better." Gaston shrugged, utterly unconcerned, and leaned back in his chair. "The snow will make it easier to spot their tracks, and harder for them to smell us. And the moon will be full, so we'll have plenty of light to see by. If you ask me, the conditions couldn't be better. If we can't put an end to this tonight, then, well..." He let this last thought go unfinished, as if he didn't even want to acknowledge the alternative.

Lefou raised his beer to his lips in order to hide the disappointment that he was sure was written plainly on his face. It was pretty clear that there was no talking Gaston out of his plan. He hadn't expected any less, but that didn't mean that he was happy about it.

They both looked up as Étienne approached the table and cleared his throat. "The counter is clean, the empty casks have all been moved to the cellar, and there's a full stack of firewood next to the hearth. Do you need me for anything else?"

"Not at the moment," said Gaston.

"So then it's all right if I leave for a while?" Étienne asked.

Gaston flicked a hand impatiently, like one would do to chase away a dog begging for scraps. "Be my guest."

"Do you ever wonder where he goes during the day?" Lefou asked as he watched Étienne walk off.

"No."

"You're not even curious?"

"Not especially."

That quieted Lefou, but only temporarily. "Ya know, I saw him at Belle's house that day you proposed," he said thoughtfully.

"I saw a lot of people at Belle's house that day," Gaston grunted.

"Yeah, only the entire village!" Lefou said with a laugh. He shrank instinctively into his seat when Gaston looked at him and raised a hand threateningly. _Oops_. Probably not the best idea to bring _that_ part up. "I - I mean, Étienne was there _after_ they all left," he explained hastily, trying to cover his gaffe before it earned him a smack to the head. "When I went to get your boots, he was already there."

Gaston sighed and glanced up at the ceiling. "_So_?"

"So he said he was there to get your boots too. But I've been thinking..."

"Well there's your first mistake."

"No, no! Hear me out," Lefou insisted. "I've been _thinking_, what if he was there for something _else_? Like what if...what if there's something going _on _between him and Belle? And what if _that's_ why she turned you down?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Gaston snorted derisively and reached for his beer. "Of all the harebrained ideas. They don't even _like_ each other."

"She seemed to like him well enough when she made him that scarf he's always wearing."

Gaston's hand froze in midair, with his mug halfway to his lips. A fleeting, faraway look passed over his face, as if some image buried deep in the recesses of his memory had suddenly floated to the surface. Then his heavy black brows drew down, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That _couldn't_ have anything to do with..."

Lefou leaned forward, nodding almost eagerly. But he held his breath, for fear of making any sound that would break into his friend's rare moment of concentration. Gaston lowered his mug slowly. "No...," he said, but there was a startling lack of confidence in his demeanor. "It isn't even a _nice_ scarf."

"It's _ugly_, right?" Lefou agreed with a chuckle. "I'll bet if she ever made a scarf for _you_, it would be much nicer."

Gaston looked up, his eyes still clouded with uncertainty. "Of course it would. It would be perfect."

"Just like you."

"Exactly."

Several seconds of silence stretched between them. "But she probably doesn't have much time to knit if she's spending all afternoon hanging around with Étienne," Lefou mused.

At first, Gaston said nothing. But then his face scrunched up and he shook his head, hard. "_No_," he said, and now the old Gaston bravado was back. "She had a chance to marry _me_, and she said no. If she said no to _me_, and everything that I could offer her, then what could she possibly see in _him_?"

"Ummm...," Lefou mumbled feebly, having no good answer for that. "You've got a point," he finally had to admit. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that when he had gone to Belle's house that day to get the boots, he had been intruding on something. Something that he wasn't supposed to see...

* * *

Adam didn't wait around for Gaston to change his mind. He jogged up the stairs to retrieve his cloak and scarf, and was back downstairs with barely a moment wasted. But just as he reached out for the handle of the door, the door swung toward him. He took a step back as a young man and woman clad in heavy, fur-lined cloaks shuffled warily into the tavern. The man was tall and lanky, so that the fine cloak seemed to hang off of him like it would from a coat rack. He looked to be close to Adam's age, if not a few years older, with a large nose, thin lips, and a weak chin. The woman appeared to be a little younger than him, with a slight build and a thin, pinched face that reminded Adam of a weasel, only much less cute.

"You there," the man addressed Adam. His voice had a distinctly upper class affectation to it that immediately grated on Adam's nerves. "Are you the owner of this inn?"

"I believe you're looking for _me_," Gaston cut in, before Adam could respond. Adam saw a bit of the man's pretension slip and his eyes go wide as Gaston rose from his table and strode toward them, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "Are you looking to rent a room?"

"Goodness, no." The man seemed to recover his composure at this question, and his upper lip curled in disdain as he surveyed the tavern area. "I'm looking for a farrier. My horse lost a shoe some distance down the road. We managed to make it as far as your village, but I'm afraid he won't be able to continue on without replacing the shoe. I was hoping that you might have someone here who can fit him with a new one."

"You want M. Sabot," said Gaston. "He's been shoeing horses in this village for over forty years. He's gotten a bit slow in his old age, but he still does good work. Lefou here can show you where his shop is."

"My coachman is waiting outside with the carriage. If you would show _him_ where to find the shop, he'll take care of the rest." Gaston nodded at Lefou, who looked less than delighted to be put in charge of this errand. Adam watched him tug his cloak around his shoulders as he steeled himself to go back out into the cold, and he marveled at the fact that he actually appeared to have caught a break for once.

"I suppose we'll have to wait here until this M. Sabot is finished," said the man, sounding only slightly more enthused than Lefou had just looked.

"At least it's warmer than the carriage," his wife finally spoke up, glancing toward the fireplace. "And so...rustic." The rodent-like twitch of her nose told Adam that she had not meant this last part as a compliment.

"Yes, so many antlers," the man agreed. "Well, we might as well have a seat. It sounds we could be stuck here for a while." The man withdrew a coin purse from inside his cloak and tossed a couple of coins at Adam. "Here," he said in a bored tone, not bothering to even look at Adam as he sauntered toward the fire. "See to our other horse, would you?"

Adam felt a hot burst of anger flare up in him at the man's presumption. "Actually, I was just going to-"

"Get right on that!" Gaston interrupted loudly. "Étienne here will get your horse settled in the stable while you and your...lovely...wife come in and warm up."

"But you said I could _leave_," Adam hissed to Gaston.

"Well that was before we had a _customer_," Gaston muttered back through a forced smile.

"But taking care of the horses is Lefou's job!"

"And Lefou just left for M. Sabot's shop. Just see to the man's horse, would you?"

With a huff, Adam stalked out into square. He gasped as a gust of icy cold wind hit him full in the face, and he silently cursed himself for not managing to slip out the door before Lord and Lady Pain-In-The-You-Know-Where had shown up.

The carriage that they had arrived in was hard to miss - it was small, but so gaudy looking that it almost hurt the eyes, and parked right next to the fountain. A middle aged man with a graying beard was unhitching a horse from the double harness. He looked over as Adam approached. "Are you here to take Capitaine?" he asked.

"Who?" said Adam.

"_Him_," the man clarified, patting the horse on its neck.

"Oh. Uh, yes." Adam took the leads from the man and led the horse into the stable. Étienne looked up from his stall and whinnied softly as Adam passed. "Not right now, boy," he sighed, and Étienne snorted in exasperation. He opened the door to the stall next to Étienne's and gave Capitaine a gentle nudge, but the horse refused to budge. "In you go," he said, placing both hands on Capitaine's flank and shoving a little more forcefully. Capitaine stamped his hoof and whipped his head around, pushing Adam hard in the chest with his muzzle.

"Hey!" Adam cried, taking a step back and stumbling over a bucket of oats. The bucket tipped and spilled the oats onto the dirt floor. "Now look what you did," he groaned, glaring daggers at the horse. "Would you just get in there already?" Capitaine bared his teeth in what Adam could have sworn was a grin, before flicking his tail and prancing into the stall. Adam grabbed an armful of hay from a nearby bale and tossed it in behind him before slamming the gate shut. "Enjoy your lunch!" He gestured rudely with his hand, but Capitaine had his back to him, and so the gesture met nothing but the horse's broad rear end.

Then Adam turned and ran a hand through his hair as he looked at the spilled oats. Grabbing a broom from the rack on the wall, he did his best to quickly sweep the feed back into the bucket. When he re-entered the tavern, Adam made his way over to the counter and grabbed a bar towel to try to wipe some of the dust and dirt off of himself. "Stupid horse," he muttered under his breath.

Clothlide glanced over from one of the barrels, where she was busy filling two steins with beer for the stupid horse's owners. "I'll trade you the horse for _these_ two," she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly toward the couple's table.

That managed to get a laugh out of Adam. "No thanks."

"Actually, I _do_ need to go check on the ragout I started. Can you at least bring these over to them for me? Please?"

Adam grimaced, but he took the drinks from Clothilde. The couple appeared to be deep in a hushed conversation when Adam approached their table, which was fine with him because he really didn't want to converse with them any more than was necessary. He slid the mugs onto the table without a word and made to sneak off when, suddenly, the man's hand shot out and grabbed Adam's sleeve.

"Wait," he said.

Adam looked down at the man, trying not to let his annoyance show on his face. "Is there something else I can help you with?" he said evenly.

"No...," the man trailed off, as a puzzled frown crept across his features. "Except...do we _know_ each other?"

"I don't believe so," Adam replied curtly, gently tugging his sleeve from the man's grasp.

But the man refused to give up so easily. "Are you certain?" he pressed, grabbing for the shirt once more and peering at Adam with an intensity that made him a bit uncomfortable. "I can't shake this nagging feeling that we've met somewhere before."

Adam was about to deny it again when, suddenly, a cold chill raced down his spine. His breath grew ragged as he realized that he _had_, in fact, met this man and his wife before - and it had not been very long ago. It had been the night before his would-be wedding, to be exact. _This_ was the pair who had approached him during the pre-wedding banquet and had drunkenly argued over whether it was bad luck to offer their congratulations to him before the ceremony. That particular debate had ended up being rather moot, but it certainly felt like a stroke of _incredibly_ bad luck to be looking into the faces of the very same couple right now. If either of them managed to put two and two together, it was all over. Adam wanted nothing more in that moment than to run, to just drop everything right there and never look back. But he forced himself to stay put and to look the man in the eye. He knew that any outward signs of alarm would only make the man more suspicious of him.

As calmly as he could manage, Adam extricated his shirt from the man's hand. "I think it unlikely that a man of your...station-" he practically had to force the word out - "would have much occasion to associate with one of mine. _My lord_," he added for good measure, swallowing his pride for the sake of the ruse.

The man sat up a bit straighter at that. "Well yes, of course that's true. I don't often have reason to frequent establishments such as...this. But still, I can't help but feel that there's something _familiar_ about you. And I never forget a face..."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Matthieu, can't you see he's right?" the man's wife interjected irritably. "Exactly where do you suppose you would have made friends with a barhand? Unless, perhaps, you have been getting up to activities that you haven't told me about?" she suggested archly.

"Er, no, you're right of course, dearest," Matthieu agreed quickly. A little _too_ quickly, Adam thought, but he wasn't about to be the one to mention it. He inched away quietly as Matthieu attempted to placate his wife, and then slipped as quickly as he could into the kitchen, and out of their sight.

_Calm down_, Adam repeated over and over to himself as he watched Clothilde stir some carrots into a stew. _Once their horse is properly shoed, they'll be on their way, and they'll forget all about this little detour_. Besides, it wasn't like they would actually connect the man who had served them in this humble little village to the prince whose castle they had visited several months before, was it? Adam stole a look at his blurry reflection in the window. He bore little resemblance to the man he had been before he went on the run, he told himself. His once smooth, clean-shaven jawline now sported a patchy, but rather hard to miss, beard. His hair was a good inch and a half longer than it had been, and had lost much of its former luster. And thanks to several weeks of seemingly never-ending manual labor, he was noticeably more muscular than he had been before - though one wouldn't necessarily know it thanks to the ill-fitting borrowed clothes that hid his frame. He looked every inch a peasant.

Besides that, Matthieu and his wife had been incredibly drunk when they had met the prince - and Matthieu didn't strike Adam as the sharpest of fellows to begin with, no matter what he claimed about never forgetting a face. Still, he resolved to avoid them as much as he could for as long as they remained in the tavern. He had managed to get by for this long, and he wasn't going to jeopardize it by tempting fate now.

* * *

A commotion from the floor below roused Adam abruptly from his sleep that night. He glanced to the window and saw that it was still fully dark outside, much too early for anyone in the village to be awake. His breath caught in his throat. Had his father's men come for him? Had Matthieu and his wife finally figured out who he was and sent word to his family? He scrambled out of the bed and ran to the window, which looked out on the village square. A light snow was falling and had already coated the ground in a thin blanket. He could see what looked like two sets of fresh footprints stamped into the snow, as well as the imprint of some wide, flat object. The footprints appeared to lead right up to the door downstairs. But there was no carriage, no horses, no guards - nothing to indicate that the sudden disturbance had anything to do with _him_.

Adam let out his breath. It had been a little silly to think that the couple could have ratted him out so quickly, even if they _had_ recognized him, he supposed. Nevertheless, something _was _clearly going on downstairs, and it was loud enough that he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep through it. He glanced down at his nightclothes, shrugged when he realized his appearance hardly mattered at the moment, and then opened the door out onto the hallway. The noise was louder now, and it sounded like two people talking excitedly. He could tell by the booming voice that carried even up to the second floor that one of them was Gaston, so he knew they weren't intruders. And then he remembered that Gaston and Lefou had gone off shortly before closing that night on some sort of covert pursuit. Had they only just come back? Adam hastened his steps, curious to see what they had been up to for the last several hours.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the bottom of the stairs, and his hand tightened unconsciously around the banister. Sure enough, Gaston and Lefou were standing in the doorway, torches in hand. Both men were covered in snow from head to foot, and what looked like little _icicles_ appeared to be hanging from Lefou's nostrils. Both men were also red-faced and very obviously out of breath, Lefou more so than Gaston. But their disheveled appearance wasn't what had caused Adam to draw up short.

At their feet lay a sled, and on the sled lay the bodies of three dead wolves.

Gaston flashed his teeth in a smile so wide, Adam thought his face might split in two. "_I got 'em_."

* * *

_Thank you again to my awesome beta, TrudiRose, for her help with this chapter! She has been very kind to be my sounding board and second set of eyes on this story._

_And thank you, old and new readers, for the really nice reviews on the last chapter. It's amazing to see so much love for this movie after 26 years! And it makes me really happy to know that you're enjoying my take on it. You guys are the best._


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